Sam HC
by annonwrite
Summary: A collection of one-shots written for various memes and challenges on LJ. All include sick, injured, or otherwise hurt Sam. Most are hurt/comfort indulgences with little plot...my favorite!
1. Cleaning the Guns

Prompt: Well hey, feverish Sam, whatcha doing? What's that? You're cleaning all the guns? Hoookay, let's get you back to bed...

"Cleaning the Guns"

The list of things Dean would not do for a beer and a bed is short. Very short.

It's fuck-o'clock at night and he's been hunting for far too many hours. His muscles ache. His eyes are gritty. He can't stop yawning.

When he pulls up in front of the motel, he's surprised to see that the lights are on in their room. Sam begged off the hunt this morning, sniffling and sneezing and not feeling great.

Sam should be sleeping right now. Dean should be sleeping right now. The whole damn world should be sleeping right now.

Dean opens the motel room door soundlessly in case Sam fell asleep with the lights on. However, both beds are empty. Sam is standing near the room's small table in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing up?"

With a start, Sam whirls around, gun pointed right at Dean's chest.

Dean freezes. "Sam, it's me."

Sam sneezes with the gun still pointed, and Dean almost shits his pants. When Sam looks up again, he squints. "Deed?" he sniffles.

"Yeah. It's me. So can you put the fucking gun down?"

Sam looks at the gun like he can't quite remember what it is or why it's in his hands. "Oh. Yeah." He sniffles thickly and puts the gun back on the table.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. "How are you feeling? You know, besides jumpy." As Sam picks up a different gun and a bore brush, Dean notices that all of the guns he left with Sam are spread out on the table. So is their cleaning kit.

"Fide," Sam says, but totally negates the congested response with three rapid-fire sneezes.

"Right. What are you doing?" Dean asks.

"Cleadidg the guds."

As Sam swipes his sleeve across his nose, Dean notices something. "Sam, is that thing loaded? And is the safety not on?"

Sam looks at the gun like he hasn't had safety lessons ingrained in his mind since he was old enough to even think about touching the guns. "Oh," he says, sliding the gun open to remove the bullets.

"What the hell is wrong with you? And why are you even cleaning the guns when you're supposed to be sleeping?"

Sam barks out a cough that sounds a lot worse than it did this morning. It's wet. It makes Dean cringe. "Dad told me to clead 'emb."

And Dean freezes again, because _shit_. Glancing around the room, he sees that the salt line at the doors and windows are still in-tact. "Christo," Dean mutters, and checks Sam for a response, but gets none. He's just about to go for the holy water when he sees Sam shiver.

Sam is a 6 foot 4 inch tall furnace. He sweats like it's his job. He bitches about the heat from April to October. Sam does not shiver.

"Hey, Sam? How are you feeling, man? You feel worse than when I left you this morning?"

The grunt Sam gives in response isn't really a yes or a no, so Dean takes a few cautious steps closer. The telltale signs are all there: flushed cheeks, light sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip, glassy eyes. Sam's running one hell of a fever. And hallucinating. And cleaning their fucking guns.

"Sam, why don't you let me finish that for you, huh? That way you can get some sleep. You can just go lay down…"

"Doe," Sam interrupts, picking up two of the other guns. Two of the very loaded, very non-safety-protected guns. Then he sneezes. And fuck, sneezing and guns are _so_ not a good combination. "Dad said I gotta clead the guds."

Dean quickly brainstorms his options. "Okay," he says. "That's fine. Just, why don't you keep working on that one?" Dean motions to the unloaded gun. "It's a mess."

There's a terrifying moment of hesitation, but eventually Sam sets the two loaded guns down and goes back to work on the unloaded one. Dean rambles some shit about how Dad's going to be so happy when he sees the good work Sammy is doing. Meanwhile, he makes quick work of unloading the rest of the guns and shoving all of the bullets in his pockets.

With the immediate crisis averted, Dean just needs to work out how exactly to get his feverish, sniffling, sneezing mess of a brother into bed. "Hey, Sam, guess what? Dad just called and said you can quit cleaning the guns and go to sleep."

"Doe he didd't."

Well, it was worth a shot. Switching tactics, Dean digs through the first aid kit for a few Tylenol. He fills a glass with water. "Sammy, I don't want you to be sore tomorrow from all that gun cleaning you're doing. Why don't you take these Tylenol for me?"

Sam considers, coughs, then accepts the pills and swallows them with a few sips of water. Dean wills them to work. Quickly.

Getting another idea, Dean goes to the bathroom and soaks a washcloth in the coldest water he can produce from the tap. He wrings the cloth out slightly and returns to the gun-cleaning festivities. "You've got some oil or something on your forehead, man."

In between a couple of sneezes, Sam swipes half-heartedly at his forehead.

"Here," Dean says. "Let me get it for you." Dean sneaks a hand in for a quick fever check. He knows Sam's forehead well enough to know that they're in at least in high 103 territory, if not low 104s.

He removes his hand and presses the washcloth to Sam's forehead. Sam shivers again and leans slightly into the cloth in Dean's hand. The manic cleaning doesn't stop, but it does slow.

"Think you got some of that oil on your neck, too," Dean says gently, removing the cloth and turning it to the cool side before placing it on the back of Sam's neck.

After another minute or two, Sam asks, "Did you get it?"

Dean sighs. "Yeah, Sammy. I got it."

Sam's motions slow even further until he drops the gun and the brush on the table. "Deed?"

"Yeah?"

"I dod't feel good."

"I bet you don't, man. Are you ready for bed?" Without waiting for an answer, Dean guides his brother over to the bed. He tucks the blankets around Sam before laying the washcloth across his forehead. "Get some sleep."

"Deed?" Sam asks, blinking up with eyes that are too glassy, too bloodshot, too heavy-lidded.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Tell Dad…tell him I tried…"

A wave of 37 different emotions washes over Dean. "He knows, Sammy. He knows."

And even though Dean's exhausted to the bone, he sits at the small table and finishes cleaning the guns, watching his brother sleep.


	2. Points

Prompt: Sam has a sinus infection and Dean puts ice packs (or hot compresses. Whichever one works better, I have no clue) on his face to make him feel better.

"Points"

"Nasty," Dean says.

Sam nods and blows his nose again. It's thick, painful, and yes, nasty. What's worse is that he can blow his nose until he's about to pass out, but there's still a never-ending supply of shit congesting his head.

The garbage can is less than a foot from the bed, but apparently he's too sick to get things from point A to point B. When he leans over to retrieve the wayward tissues, the shit in his head sloshes forward and causes white-hot pain to bloom in his forehead and behind his cheeks. He groans and sits back against the headboard.

The fucking tissues can stay on the fucking floor.

"Nice aim, Michael Jordan," Dean says. He goes to pick up the tissues, but freezes half way there. "Dude. I can see the color of your snot through the tissue. I'm not touching those without a full biohazard suit."

Sam shrugs. His mouth is hanging open because if he closes it he'll suffocate and die. Dean puts a rough palm to Sam's forehead. Even that little bit of pressure makes him whimper.

"Your face hurt?" Dean asks.

Before Sam can answer, Dean presses a thumb to each of Sam's cheekbones. Pain flares and Sam hisses, pulling back like he's been burned.

"Sorry, sorry." Dean pats Sam's leg through the blankets.

Sam listens to Dean run water in the bathroom and breathes through his mouth and wonders if it's physically possible for a person's face to explode.

When Dean returns, his hands are full. He perches on the edge of the bed and holds out three pills. Two are Tylenol, but the bigger pill is unfamiliar.

"Augmentin," Dean explains.

Sam's never been so happy to see an antibiotic in his life.

Once the pills are gone, Dean holds up two washcloths and goes right for Sam's cheeks. Instinctively, Sam pulls away.

"I'll be gentle. It'll feel better. Promise."

Sam nods hesitantly and lets Dean press the cloths to his face. They're hot, hovering just this side of burning, but they feel damn good. He closes his eyes and groans.

Several minutes later, the washcloths are cool and the shit in Sam's head is trying to make an escape.

"Blow your nose. I'll go warm these up again."

Sam blows his nose and blows his nose and blows his nose. When he's done, he feels a little better. But he still misses the garbage can.

Dean returns and presses the hot cloths to his cheeks again. The heat and the relief are too much. His eyes start to droop.

"Think you can sleep now?" Dean asks.

Sam doesn't even manage a nod before drifting off.

When he wakes, Dean's asleep on the bed next to him. There are washcloths in his hands and the floor around the garbage can is clean.

Sam smiles and blows his nose. He closes his mouth and stays alive. When he tosses the tissues, he doesn't miss.

But in this basketball game, all the points go to Dean.


	3. Missing

Prompt: Pre-Jess, Dean goes to visit Sam at Stanford for a surprise weekend and finds out the kid's in the hospital. He's prepared to go in there and chew Sam the hell out for not calling him, but instead he finds a very, very sick, very, very miserable Sammy, who got sick too fast to call and couldn't remember Dean's number for the hospital forms.

Missing

Dean double checks the address before pounding on the door. After a minute or two, he pounds again. Harder.

Sam should be here. Not because he's expecting his older brother to just show up out of the blue. But because he's done with classes for the week. Because the shitty excuse for a car he's driving is in its spot in front of his apartment. Because he's not on the schedule to work this afternoon. (Yeah, Stanford should really do a better job of protecting their students' privacy.)

Yes, Sam should be home, but he's not. And Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. He misses Sam. He misses the stupid little stuff most of all. Like the way Sam would draw goofy faces in the condensation on the mirror after his shower. The way they'd arm-wrestle for the TV's remote control, and sometimes Dean would let Sam win just to watch him gloat. The way Sam would get so excited when telling Dean about the most boring shit he learned at school. Yeah, Dean misses his brother. He's looking forward to this impromptu visit, and wants it to start sooner rather than later.

Dean is just about to head back to his car, drive around for a while, come back later, when he hears a voice.

"Hey. You looking for the guy who lives there?" The guy has college student written all over him: jeans, Stanford hoodie, messenger bag, a lanyard attached to his keys.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I am."

"I don't think he's out of the hospital yet."

The blood in Dean's veins turns to ice. "Hospital?"

The guy nods. "Yeah. There was an ambulance there two nights ago. I haven't seen him since."

"What happened?"

"I don't know," the guy says, switching his messenger bag from his right shoulder to the left. "I heard that maybe he…"

"Where's the hospital?" Dean demands.

"Stanford Hospital. Take a right out of here, then take the first left, and it's about two miles down the road."

Dean calls out his thanks, but he's already jumping in his car. When he pulls out of the parking lot, the tires squeal.

Two nights ago?

Shit.

If Sam's not already dead, Dean's going to kill him.

* * *

><p>When Dean approaches the desk inside the hospital's main entrance, he's breathing hard from sprinting through the parking garage.<p>

The receptionist smiles up at him. "Can I help you, sir?"

"My brother," he breathes. "Think he's here."

She nods and clicks around on her computer. "What's his name?"

Instinct takes him toward one of their aliases, but then he remembers. Real student. Real ID. Real insurance. "Sam Winchester."

The receptionist types something in and nods before writing him a visitor's pass. "He's in room 346. Just take those elevators to the third floor and turn left."

Dean had hoped the guy at the apartment complex was wrong. That it was one of Sam's neighbors who'd been picked up by ambulance. But no, Sam is in the hospital. Something's wrong. He's been in the fucking hospital for two fucking days, and Dean didn't know about it. Why didn't Dean know about it?

"Thank you," he says, forcing a smile.

As he rides the elevator, he twists the visitor's pass in his hand and thinks of all the things he's going to say to his brother: _This is what cell phones are for, Sam. You're in the fucking hospital? You fucking call. You even _think_ about going to the hospital, you fucking call. What kind things are they teaching you at this fucking school, anyway? Thought you were supposed to be getting smarter?_

Then he's standing outside room 346, taking a deep breath, and walking into the room.

And all those things he wanted to say to his brother?

They go flying out the window as soon he sees Sam in the hospital bed.

Sam with the oxygen on his face and the pulse-ox on his finger and the IVs in his arm. Sam asleep or unconscious with the too-pale skin and dark bruises under his eyes. Sam motionless with the hideous grey hospital gown hair that's so much longer than Dean remembers.

Behind him, someone clears their throat, and Dean turns to see a nurse. "Can I help you?" she asks.

"What's wrong with him?" he asks instead of answering.

The nurse studies him. "Are you…his brother?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with him?"

"Bacterial meningitis."

Shit, Sam. Shit. "Is he going to be okay?"

She scoots past him to adjust Sam's IV tubing. "He should be. He's been on antibiotics for almost 48 hours, and he's starting to show some improvement. He's still got a long recovery ahead of him, though."

"Why didn't he call me?" The question is out of Dean's mouth before he can stop himself.

The nurse smiles and takes the chart from Sam's bed. She flips through a few papers and holds one out for him to see.

It's Sam's hand-writing, but sloppier than normal. It's Dean's cell phone number, but the digits are all mixed up. The four is where the six is supposed to be. The nine is where the four is supposed to be. Below that, another phone number is written. Still the same seven digits. Still the wrong order. Below that, another incorrect permutation. "What the hell?"

"He's been pretty sick. Fever around 104 or higher. He's been out of it. He tried hard to remember your number, but he couldn't get it right. He didn't have an emergency contact card filled out for the University. He's been asking for you a lot, though. We've just been waiting for him to become lucid enough to remember the details."

As if on cue, Sam stirs on the bed. His eyes flutter open and search the room for a minute before finding Dean.

"Dean?" he rasps.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says, approaching the bed and putting a hand on Sam's too-hot arm. "It's me. How are you feeling, man?"

"Head hurts," Sam mutters, closing his eyes again.

Dean turns to the nurse. "Can he have something for the pain?"

"Sure," she nods. "I'll be right back."

Once she's gone, Dean says, "Guess you've been pretty sick, huh, Sammy?"

"Yeah." Sam opens his eyes again, and they're too bright. Too glassy. "Glad you're here, Dean."

Dean brushes a few strands of hair away from his brother's face. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

"Did I get your number right?"

Dean smiles sadly. "You tried, kiddo. But maybe we should tattoo my phone number across your forehead or something. You know. Just in case this happens again."

Sam gives a hint of a smile. "Okay."

Dean pulls a chair up next to Sam's bed, because he has a feeling this is how he's going to be spending his first weekend in Palo Alto. He sees Sam's eyes start to droop. "Just sleep, Sammy. I'll be here when you wake up. You can tell me all about the shit you're learning and the dorky little friends you're making, okay? After you sleep."

"Missed you, Dean."

Dean squeezes his brother's shoulder. "Yeah. Missed you, too."

And Sam sleeps.


	4. Healing Powers

Prompt: Sam is sick. They're at a gas station, Dean tells Sam to wait in the car while he goes inside to pay. He ducks into the bathroom for a second and when he comes back out, Sam is shivering over at the icee/slurpie machine because his throat hurts and he just wanted something cold to drink.

"Healing Powers"

The skin on Sam's cheek is too warm under Dean's palm and rough from a day or two without shaving. "Hey. Sammy."

Sam sneezes before his eyes are even open. "Hmm?" he asks, some hoarse thing that's heavy on breath, light on sound.

"Stopped to fill up. I gotta go inside and pay. You need anything?" Dean slides his hand up to Sam's forehead, pushing long strands of hair away. Sam shakes his head and Dean feels the response more than he sees it. He feels how much Sam's fever is up, too. "How are you doing?"

Sam sniffles. Blinks. "Just tired," he rasps.

"Sleep. I'll be right back, okay?"

Two sneezes and a cough later, Sam is shivering against the door of the Impala, mouth open, fogging up the window.

Dean shoves his hands in his coat pockets as he hurries into the gas station. Apparently it's too much to ask for an angry spirit to cause problems in Florida or Texas in the middle of December, which is why Dean's freezing and Sam's not just sick, but _sick_.

Before paying, Dean heads into the bathroom. He's quick – only in there long enough to think about how many more hours they're going to be on the road and how disturbingly clean the floor in this place is.

When he's finished, he heads to the register. "$50 on pump 2," he tells the cashier.

With one hand on his wallet, he stops when he hears familiar sounds. Sniffling. Sneezing. Coughing. Familiar, but out of place.

Dean turns, and there's Sam. Standing in front of the rainbow of Slurpee machines. Without a coat, shaking and swaying.

"Sam?" Dean asks. He puts a steadying hand on Sam's shoulder. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

Sam coughs without covering his mouth. He motions vaguely to the dispensers, at least half of which are now seriously contaminated. "Throat hurts. Want something cold." The rough words are followed by a wince.

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder. "You're shaking. I don't think something cold is what you need."

But Sam just eyes the churning machines longingly as he rubs at his throat.

Dean sighs and grabs the biggest cup they have. "What flavor do you want?"

The combination of Coke, Wild Cherry, and Blue Raspberry sounds disgusting to Dean, but whatever. He fills the cup and puts a hot pink straw through the lid just because he can. He hands the Slurpee to Sam, who coughs and takes a long sip before sighing in relief.

"Good?"

Sam nods and takes another sip. Even though he's shivering harder, he looks content.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." Dean puts a hand back on Sam's shoulder and guides him over to the cashier. "$50 on pump 2. And one Slurpee."

In the car, Dean keeps the heat on full blast. Sam drinks every last drop, then sleeps. It's the first time all night he's stopped shivering.

The healing powers of a Slurpee.


	5. Keep Calm and Carry On

Prompt: Okay, I need Sam incredibly sick and Dean (acting) incredibly calm.

"Keep Calm and Carry On"

"Linda, got one going to room 7."

Linda looks up from the computer. It's hour 11.5 of her 12 hour workday, and she wants nothing more than to finish this paperwork, go home, and curl up with her husband and a bottle of wine. But Josh, the triage nurse, is pushing a guy on a stretcher into room 7 and she can hear him gasping and see him turning blue from down the hall, so she's probably not going to get her wish anytime soon.

She calls for Kaylie to help out and runs down the hall. One of the ER physicians, Dr. Thomas, is right on her heels. The kid on the stretcher is coughing and wheezing and clutching at his chest and his throat like that will make this better. Linda would put money on a pneumonia diagnosis.

"What's going on?" Dr. Thomas asks.

Josh rolls the stretcher next to the bed. "His brother says chest pain, coughing, and trouble breathing. Didn't take any vitals in triage. Saw the blue nail beds and lips and brought him straight back here. Let's move him on three."

Josh counts off and Linda helps slide the kid from the stretcher to the hospital bed. He looks to be well over 6 feet tall and solid muscle, so it takes all of them, including the guy who must be the brother, to move him. "What's his name?" Linda asks the brother as Josh wheels the stretcher away.

"Sam." The brother reaches in to help Dr. Thomas, who's tugging off Sam's jacket and shirt while the poor kid coughs and doesn't breathe and coughs some more.

"Sam, how are you doing?" Dr. Thomas asks.

Sam gasps out something that's probably "can't breathe," but just as easily could be "cat's free" or "ant tree." It's impossible to decipher around all the wheezing he's doing.

"We're going to take care of that, okay?" Dr. Thomas assures. Then he starts rattling off a list of orders to Kaylie: portable chest x-ray, CBC, Chem 7, U/A, all the standards for when someone comes in looking and sounding as shitty as Sam.

"Here, Sam," Linda says as she slips an oxygen mask over his mouth and tugs the strap over long hair.

"Dean," Sam rasps through one layer of mask and seventeen layers of coughs. "Hurts, Dean. Please." It's begging, pleading. It breaks Linda's heart.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, rubbing his thumb against the back of his brother's neck. "They're going to take care of you. You're going to be fine."

Linda pulls Sam's hand away from his chest long enough to clip a pulse-ox monitor on his finger. When she sees the number on the screen, she exchanges a worried glance with Dr. Thomas. 53%. This kid is in rough shape.

"Dean? How long has Sam been sick?" Dr. Thomas asks as he presses a stethoscope to Sam's chest.

"He's had a cold for a week or two. Cough and chest pain started two days ago."

Linda bites back the comment that they probably should have come in two days ago. She sticks a thermometer in Sam's ear and notices that Sam is leaning into his brother's touch like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe it is.

"Temp's 104.5," Linda tells Dr. Thomas, then turns back to Dean. "Any allergies to any medications?"

Dean doesn't look away from his brother. "No."

"Any significant medical history we need to know about?" Dr. Thomas asks.

"No. Healthy kid. Except, you know, right now."

As if to prove this point, Sam leans forward and starts gagging. Linda pulls off the oxygen mask, but when she goes to reach for an emesis basin, Dean's already holding one in front of Sam's chin.

"Gonna be fine, Sammy," he says softly. "Just hang in there."

Linda glances at Sam's oxygen levels. Down to 51%. Shit. When Sam stops vomiting, it's almost hard to tell because he's still coughing so hard. She wipes his mouth with a towel and slips the oxygen mask back in place.

Kaylie returns with supplies for the blood tests. "Radiology is on their way with the portable chest x-ray."

"What do you think, doc?" Dean asks, voice level. "Pneumonia?"

Before Dr. Thomas can respond, Sam's body goes rigid, then starts shaking violently.

"He's seizing," Linda calls. And damn if this isn't the very last thing Sam needs.

"Shit," Dr. Thomas says. "Get an intubation kit ready. Might need it. Dean, I'm going to need you to head to the waiting room until we get Sam stabilized, okay?"

"No," Dean says immediately. "Please. If he wakes up and I'm not here, he'll panic."

Dr. Thomas is too busy taking care of Sam to respond. This is the point at which Linda should lead Dean out to the waiting room, assure him his brother's going to be fine.

"Please," Dean says, turning pleading hazel-green eyes on her. "I'll be out of the way. Just let me stay."

She's seen the connection between the two brothers. She sees how calm Dean is. Most people would be a panicking, fucked-up mess if their brother was seizing and vomiting and turning blue, but Dean's handling it. She doesn't have the heart to kick him out. "Okay," she says. "You can stay."

"Thank you," Dean says, and sounds so sincere that Linda knows she made the right decision. Dean puts a hand on Sam's shaking shoulder and Linda goes back to work.

Sam's seizure stops. They do the chest x-ray and Linda wins the bet: pneumonia. Both lungs. Bad. And as an added bonus, three cracked ribs.

Sam isn't lucky enough to stay unconscious for very long. When he wakes, sure enough his eyes go straight to Dean.

"It's okay, Sammy. Everything's going to be okay," Dean says, over and over again.

Respiratory therapy comes in with treatments. Sam coughs and wheezes and chokes, but they get his oxygen levels get above 60%. They run blood tests and start him on antibiotics. The whole time, Dean is there, calm and reassuring and strong.

Eventually, Sam stabilizes. His cough slows enough that he falls into shallow sleep. Dr. Thomas goes to check on another patient, leaving Linda alone with the brothers.

"He's doing a little better," Linda says.

Dean nods and runs a hand over his brother's long hair. "Yeah. That's good." He clears his throat. "Is there a bathroom around here I could use?"

Linda nods. "Come on. I'll show you." She leads Dean out into the hallway. "You did good in there, Dean."

Instead of responding, Dean stops, puts his hands on his knees, and vomits all over the floor.

Well, shit. She puts a hand on his back and feels him trembling.

It was an act. The calmness. The strength. It was all a show just for Sam's sake. Inside, he was falling apart.

When Dean finishes vomiting, Linda helps him over to a chair and crouches down in front of him. "Scary shit in there, huh?"

He nods once and wipes his hand with the back of his mouth. There's fear and pain and relief in his eyes. "Thought I was going to lose him, you know?"

Linda knows. She thought the same thing. She palms Dean's forehead, a just-in-case fever check, but he's fine. Worried about his brother. He has a right to be. "I'll be back, okay?" Dean nods.

She glances in Sam's room. Sleeping. Blood oxygen at 68%. Improving. She calls a custodian to clean up the hallway, then grabs a bottle of water from the nurse's station.

"Here," she says, handing the bottle to Dean.

He takes a swig. "Thanks."

"You're a good brother, you know?"

Dean gives a weak smile. He picks at a thread on his jeans. "Yeah, until I puke everywhere."

She smiles back. "That can be our little secret."

"Thanks." He takes another sip, then tilts his head in the direction of Sam's room. "I should get back in there."

"He's sleeping. He's okay. Take a minute. Catch your breath."

Dean nods. "Yeah."

"I'm going to go finish up some paperwork. My shift's over, but I'll check on Sam before I leave, okay?"

"Thanks, Linda. I appreciate everything."

She squeezes his shoulder. "You're welcome, Dean."

Linda returns to her computer and works on what should have been finished hours ago.

After a while, Kaylie returns from a patient's room and asks, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be out of here by now?"

Linda nods, saves her changes, and shuts down the computer. "I'm done. Just going to go check on one more patient before I leave."

They say goodbye and Linda heads back to room 7. Sam is sleeping. His breathing sounds better. It's still a long ways from good, but a vast improvement over what it was. His oxygen levels are still rising and his fever is still dropping. Dean has pulled a chair up next to Sam's bed and is sitting with one hand on his brother's arm.

"How's he doing?" Linda asks.

"Hanging in there, I think."

She checks Sam's monitors. Everything looks good. Then she turns her attention to Dean. He looks drained. "And how are you doing?"

"I'm good. Not the one suffering from double pneumonia, you know?"

Linda smiles gently. "Sam's going to be okay. You know that, right?"

Dean looks at his brother. Nods. "Yeah. I do."

She believes him. "I have to be back in here so few hours that I don't even want to think about it, but I'll find out what room he's in and come check on the two of you, okay?"

"Sounds like a plan."

It's hour 15 of Linda's 12 hour work day, and she's going home.

It's not the worst thing in the world.


	6. Bah Humbug

Prompt: Sucking on candy canes helps soothe sore throats. Sam has a sore throat. It is Christmas time.

"Bah Humbug"

A jazzy version of "Jingle Bells" is playing over the gas station's pathetic excuse for a sound system. It's only December 2 and Dean's already sick of holiday cheer. He's paying for gas and coffee when Sam tosses a box of candy canes on the counter.

Dean lifts one eyebrow in Sam's direction. "Candy canes?"

Sam shrugs.

"They're not even mint. They're cherry. They're girly candy canes."

"They sound good."

Dean sighs and slides the box over to the cashier.

* * *

><p>In the car, Sam immediately opens the box of candy canes and pops one in his mouth. Dean pulls away from the gas station and finds a radio station that isn't playing Christmas music.<p>

"How's the candy cane?" Dean asks.

"Good," Sam nods.

It reminds Dean of when they used to play the "how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop" game when they were little. Dean would get impatient and bite down so hard that John told him he was going to crack a tooth, but Sammy was patient and would sit there silently, counting and counting and counting.

"423 licks, Dean," he'd say when he was finished. (Or 517 or 398, depending on the day.) "That's how many licks it takes."

And then he'd eat the Tootsie part of the pop and Dean would smile. Only Sammy.

Sam's on his sixth candy cane in two hours. The wrappers are piling up on the seat.

Dean takes a candy cane from the box. "You're going to get a stomachache from eating too many of these."

Sam shifts the candy cane in his mouth to the side so that he can say "Scrooge" and snatch away the one in Dean's hand.

Bah humbug.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, the box of candy canes is empty and Dean's having a hard time finding a radio station that's <em>not<em> playing Christmas music.

Sam's fidgeting in the seat next to him, clearing his throat a lot and sniffling and rubbing at his neck.

"You okay?" Dean asks, as he digs through the glove box for a tape.

Sam grunts out a hoarse "Yeah."

"You got a sore throat or something?"

"Kind of."

Dean puts in Metallica and makes the connection. "The candy canes helped your throat, didn't they?"

"I guess so."

Dean nods and taps the steering wheel in time with "Fade to Black."

* * *

><p>Sam's asleep when they stop for gas again. Dean doesn't wake him, knowing that he probably needs the rest. He fills the tank and goes inside to pay.<p>

When he gets back in the car, Sam's blinking awake.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Got you a present." Dean holds out a bag. Inside are four boxes of candy canes: cherry and cinnamon and every girly flavor Dean could find.

Sam grins and opens the first box, popping one of the candy canes into his mouth.

Dean palms Sam's forehead. Fever-warm, but nowhere near dangerous. "That better?" he asks.

Sam nods, still sucking.

Once they're back on the road, Sam reaches in the box and holds a candy cane out to Dean. "Have one. They're good."

Dean glances over. Pink. Bubble gum flavor. Girly.

But since it's Sam and Sam's sick, he opens the wrapper and sticks it in his mouth. He sucks on it for a while before getting bored and crunching the sugar into his teeth.

"Good, right?" Sam asks, voice hoarse.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Surprisingly good."

When the tape ends, a Christmas song comes on the radio. Dean doesn't change the station.


	7. Latin

Prompt: Sam's trying to translate the incantation, but he literally can't tell an alpha from a gamma, because his brains are totally cooking. He's frustrated almost to the point of tears, because they NEED TO DO THIS NOW. Dean is kind and heroic.

"Latin"

The good news? Dean has pinned the demon down under his knees and forearms and the blade of his knife.

The other good news? Sam has the incantation for the exorcism right in front of him.

The bad news? Sam is a mess and getting messier by the minute.

"..Omnis satanica potestas, omnis…omnis…" Sam breaks off into a coughing fit so violent he drops the book.

"Shit," Dean mutters as the demon uses the distraction to try to get away. Son of a bitch is strong. "You okay, Sam?"

Sam chokes out a few more coughs and says, "Yeah."

Dean grunts. The demon thrashes. "Good. Try it again, okay? Hurry." He glances up at Sam, and fuck, he can see the shivering from all the way over here. Fever's going nowhere but up.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanic…po…satanic…po…"

"Sam? What's the problem?"

"I can't see it."

"What the fuck do you mean you can't see it?"

"There's two of everything. I can't…the letters… Dean, I don't feel good."

Those last few words makes Dean's gaze whip towards his brother. Sam is pale except for two fever-red spots on his cheeks. He's swaying on his feet. _Shit._ As much as Dean wants to throw this demon aside so he can go hug Sammy, he can't. They've been hunting this thing for days. It's causing too many problems. They need to take care of it _now_.

"Sammy, listen. I know you don't feel good. But I need you to try to focus, okay? Do your best. Get through the exorcism and we can get out of here."

Sam nods miserably, coughs, and swipes at his nose. "Okay." He picks up the book and determination is as evident on his face as the fever. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion…"

The demon lashes out. They're getting closer. Come on, Sammy.

"…infernalis…ad…adversarii, omnis…" Sam stutters, then stops. Just stops. When he looks up at Dean, there are tears in his eyes.

_Shit._ Dean drops fucking everything and runs to his brother. "Hey, Sammy. Are you okay?" Sam's forehead burns Dean's palm. When tears spill down his cheeks, Dean's surprised they don't sizzle and steam.

"I don't feel good," Sam chokes.

Dean thumbs away the tears. He guides Sam to the car with gentle words and one hand on his back. As they drive, Sam shakes and cries and Dean voices soft assurances about a bed. Warm blankets. Tylenol. Compresses as cold as they come.

"Exorciz…exorcizan…" Sam mumbles from his seat.

"Hey. Let it go, okay? We'll get the demon when you're feeling better."

Back at the motel, Dean tucks Sam in. Gets him to drink water. Places cool washcloths across his forehead and the backs of both of his hands because Sam says that's where the fever grows.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, hip to hip with his brother, and waits.

When Sam starts talking in his sleep, it's in perfect, clear Latin.

"You got it, Sammy," Dean says softly. "You got it."


	8. Contradict

Prompt: Sam gets sick for the first time since going off to stanford. He calls Dean asking if he left his hoodie with them. Dean knows something's up.

"Contradict"

It's been 4 weeks, 3 days, and about 5 hours since Sam left for Stanford.

Not that Dean counts or anything.

Not that he keeps a copy of Sam's class schedule folded up in his wallet, just because.

Not that Dean knows at any given moment exactly how many miles from Palo Alto he is, and exactly how many hours of driving over the speed limit it takes to get there.

Not that he tries to keep that number of hours less than 8.

Not that Dean closes his eyes every time his cell phone rings and hopes for the display to read "Sammy," then grins like an idiot when it actually does.

"Hey, college boy," Dean says through a smile when Sam calls on this particular evening.

"Hey. You busy?"

Dean traps the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can fidget with the gun he brought in to clean. "Nah. Just finished a hunt. Back at the motel. How are you? Classes still good? Met any girls that are way out of your league? Been to any parties? Done anything I wouldn't do?"

"Um, which one of those questions am I supposed to answer?"

Dean grins hard. He clicks the gun's safety on, then off, then on again. "Sorry. Sorry. It's just good to talk to you, you know? It's been a while since you called."

(Two weeks, 1 day, and about 2 hours. Not that Dean counts that, either.)

"Yeah, sorry. I meant to call, but I've been so busy… Hey, Dean? Have you seen my hoodie?"

The blood in Dean's veins turns cold. "Your hoodie?"

"Yeah. You know. The grey one."

Dean knows. The thing is size 18-XL or something like that. The logo on the front is so faded Dean can't remember what it's supposed to be. There's a stain on the sleeve near the right elbow. The string from the hood went missing a long time ago, but Sam still wears it.

More specifically, Sam only wears it when he's sick.

"Yeah. I know which one. Do you need it?"

"I don't need it. I just wanted to wear it, you know? But I can't find it anywhere. Thought I might have left it with you."

Dean sets the gun down. Shifts the phone to his other ear. "Did you check your closet? You have one of those now, you know. It's a place that's not the car or a motel room where you put things."

"Funny," Sam deadpans. "Yeah. I've looked everywhere, through all of my stuff, but I still can't find it."

While Sam talks, Dean pulls out his wallet. Sam's schedule. Intro to Law with Professor H. Goldman is going on right now, and Sam's not sitting in the front row, or any row, for that matter.

"Where do you remember seeing it last?" While listening for an answer, Dean goes to his duffle bag and digs through to the very bottom, where he catches a glimpse of soft, grey sweatshirt that reminds him of cough syrup and stupid shows on tiny motel room TVs and Sam's head on Dean's shoulder.

"I thought I had it packed with the rest of my winter stuff. My jacket. The long-sleeve shirts. I thought I remember putting it in that pile, but I guess not."

"Guess not," Dean echoes.

Sam yawns, this loud, obnoxious thing that would be annoying if it didn't sound so miserable.

"You sound tired, Sammy. Maybe you should get a few hours of sleep."

(Dean can be there in 5 hours. Not that he's not going to try to make it there in 4.)

"Sorry. Yeah. I was up too late last night. Maybe I'll sleep and remember what I did with the sweatshirt when I wake up."

"Maybe," Dean echoes. "Call me if you find it, okay? Or, you know. Call me if you need anything else."

"Okay. I will. Thanks, Dean."

Dean packs up, checks out, and starts heading west.

* * *

><p>Four hours later, Dean knocks on the door. He's got Sam's hoodie in one hand and a bag full of supplies in the other hand.<p>

When Sam finally appears, there are feverish red spots and pillow creases on his cheeks. His glassy eyes look stunned as he asks, "Dean?"

"Oh, good. You haven't forgotten what I look like." Dean nudges his way past Sam and into the apartment. "Nice place."

"What are you doing here?"

Dean sets the bag down and holds up the sweatshirt. "Look what I found, kiddo. Arms up," he says, tugging the sweater Sam's wearing up and over his head like he did when Sam was young. Then he pulls the sweatshirt on, helping Sam get his head and arms through the right holes. It's ridiculous and ugly and perfect all at the same time. "How's that?" Dean asks.

Sam sneezes and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "It's great," he says through a tired smile.

"Good. C'mon, sicky. Tylenol and bed for you."

Soon, Sam is tucked in with medicine, the sweatshirt, and his forehead tucked against the side of Dean's thigh.

"Hey, Dean?"

Dean presses a cool cloth to Sam's temple. "Yeah?"

"How'd you know I was sick?"

He smiles. "I have my ways."

Not that Sammy gets to know those ways. There are still about 3 years, 7 months, 26 days, and 14 hours of Stanford to get through.

Not that Dean knows that because he misses his annoying brother with his stupid sweatshirt.

Nope.

Not at all.


	9. Sounds

Prompt: It's nighttime and Sam's running a high fever but he just wants to sleep. His head hurts and his muscles have all been cramping up and he can't stop shivering and he just hurts. A lot. But he's sleeping, on and off. Dean's trying to, but Sam keeps waking him up with these time gasps and whimpers of pain in his sleep and it's killing Dean.

"Sounds"

Nails on a chalkboard. Microphone feedback. Babies crying. A dentist's drill.

Dean would take an entire symphony of these instruments over the sound of Sammy's pain.

* * *

><p>"Everything hurts," Sam said when it was afternoon and the fever was only 100.4.<p>

"What's everything?"

Sam pressed his forehead against the window. "Head. Back. Toes. Hair. Pancreas."

"Pancreas?"

"Pancreas."

"Everything."

"Everything."

* * *

><p>By evening, the fever was 101.3 with shivers that made Dean think he should go ahead and round that number up. "How are your fingernails?"<p>

"Hurt," Sam said through chattering teeth.

"Sternum?"

"Hurts."

Dean pulled the blankets one inch higher on Sammy's shoulders. "What can I do?"

"More Tylenol?"

"Does your liver hurt?"

"Yes."

"Probably not a good idea, then."

When Dean patted Sam's arm, he cried out like the bone had been shattered.

* * *

><p>By nightfall, Dean was forgoing regular Tylenol and going straight for the combination with codeine. Sam was crying and the fever was only at 103 when Dean let himself round down.<p>

"What hurts most?"

"My head," Sam moaned. "My hamstrings. My heels."

"The fever is making you hurt. You'll feel better once it breaks. You should sleep."

"Hurts too much to sleep."

Dean held the cool cloth to Sam's forehead as if he was holding shards of glass.

* * *

><p>The last temperature reading Dean got before the thermometer hurt Sam's mouth was 105.1 at 1:05 a.m.<p>

The clock mocked him.

"Sleep, Sammy," Dean pleaded.

Through his tears, Sam started naming body parts that did not exist.

* * *

><p>The moment Sam fell asleep was sudden. He was mid-sob when his eyes closed. Tears stopped. Breathing evened out.<p>

Dean sat statue still until he was sure he wasn't going to break the spell. Then he crawled into his own bed, turned off the lamp, and fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

><p>The gasp lifted Dean right off the mattress.<p>

"Sammy?" He knocked the lamp over, but in the crooked light he saw Sammy moaning in his sleep.

Dean's hands hovered inches above his brother. Sam stopped moaning and slept.

Dean righted the lamp on the way back to bed.

* * *

><p>The pattern continued. Dean would sleep. Sometimes for seven minutes. Sometimes for twelve. Sometimes three.<p>

But then Sam would gasp or moan and Dean's Older Brother Gene would kick out a shot of adrenaline, reminding him that Sammy was sick and hurting and there was nothing he could do about it.

The pillow shoved over his head made things quiet. So quiet that he could hear a voice calling "Dean?" even when it was his own imagination.

Dean tossed the pillow on the ground.

* * *

><p>At 3:46 a.m., Sam's moan bypassed Dean's ears and brain and went straight to his heart. He was across the room in seconds, pulling his blistering brother into his arms.<p>

"Sammy. Sammy, please. You gotta wake up, okay?"

Sam woke and flinched and spilled silent tears that were louder than sirens.

* * *

><p>The sun was rising before Dean heard the sounds of a breaking fever.<p>

Soft breathing. Tolerated touches. Beads of sweat dripping down cooling skin.

The sounds made up the song Dean played on repeat in his dreams.


	10. World's Best Big Brother

Prompt: Sam is sick and feverish. Dean brings him orange juice and he asks for apple juice instead. Dean bundles him up, extra pairs of socks, all the blankets, and then Sam uses his puppy-dog-eyes to convince Dean that he's too hot and wants to take everything off instead. Dean makes Sam some soup and Sam think maybe he can handle some toast instead, not soup.

"World's Best Big Brother"

The flu. It's one of those things Winchesters try to avoid at all costs. Like country music. And taxes.

But unlike Garth Brooks or Uncle Sam, the flu has caught up with them. And it has knocked Sam, literally and figuratively, on his ass.

He was fine the night before. In a state of post-hunt euphoria, they stayed up long after lights out, laughing their way through mangled Led Zeppelin lyrics and telling each other terrible jokes in the dark.

(Sam: "Hey. Dean. What did the right leg say to the left leg?"

Dean: ". . . I give up."

Sam: "Watch out for the guy in the middle. He's a real dick.")

Eventually they fell asleep. When Dean woke, it was to the sound of Sam tossing and turning his way through a cough that hadn't been there a few hours before.

He dragged a hand over his face and shuffled over to sit on the edge of Sammy's bed. Enough light filtered through the curtains that he could see the feverish flush across his brother's cheeks.

"Hey. Sammy." He smoothed his palm over Sam's forehead. 102 at best. Not dangerous, but not the start to a winning day, either.

Sam coughed, stirred, and coughed some more before opening his eyes. He blinked sluggishly in Dean's direction.

"Morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?"

Sam rolled onto his side and let his hip fall against Dean's. "Shitty."

"Figured. What's bugging you?"

He swallowed hard. "Throat. Head. Stomach." He sneezed twice.

"Nose," Dean filled in.

Sam groaned in assent. "Think I have a fever."

"Think you're right. Sounds like the flu." Dean dragged his fingernails lightly over Sam's back. "I'm gonna go pay for another night here, okay? I'll stop at the store. What can I get you?"

"Gin. Scotch." Sam coughed and huddled closer to Dean. "Vodka."

"How about Nyquil? That's got alcohol in it, right?"

Sam sneezed on Dean's knee.

"Tissues," Dean said, using the ratty hotel blanket to wipe away Sammy's snot and spit. "You want juice?"

"Orange juice."

"Good choice. Anything to eat?"

"Soup?"

Dean patted his brother's shoulder. "Such a good little patient. Go back to sleep. I won't be gone long, okay?"

He went and paid for another night in the rundown motel (God bless front desk clerks who don't flinch when Dean hands them a credit card with the name Juan Pablo Valasquez) and walked to the store down the street.

Now he's back at the motel, whistling and ready to take care of Sammy. A long time ago, they had a picture of four-year-old Dean wearing a wide grin and a "World's Best Big Brother" shirt, holding baby Sammy, who was wearing an "I Love My Big Brother" onesie. Dean thinks they should make shirts like that in adult sizes.

"Sammy. Wake up. Medicine and hydration time," Dean says, setting the plastic bags on the nightstand.

Sam rolls onto his back and moans. "I'm dying."

"You'll feel better soon," Dean assures, popping two pills out of the blister pack and opening a bottle of orange juice. "Here. Sit up a little."

Sam makes a face. "I can't swallow those."

The pills look miniscule in Dean's callused palm. "Why not?"

"Throat hurts too much."

"Your throat hurts because you need medicine. Just take them." But then Sam actually tears up, and okay, Dean doesn't have the heart for this argument. "Fine. I'll cut them open and mix the liquid with some orange juice, okay? It'll take like ass, but you'll be able to swallow it."

The look on Sam's face is not the appreciative one Dean expects.

"What?"

"Orange juice . . .it'll burn my throat."

"But when I asked you . . . " Dean sighs and sets the neglected bottle of orange juice on the nightstand. "Okay. I'll mix them with water." Sam sneezes his approval, so Dean digs out the box of tissues. "Blow your nose. I'll be right back."

In the bathroom, Dean uses his knife to slice open the pills and mix the contents into a flimsy cup of water. When he gets back to the bed, he finds his brother staring at an unused tissue like it's a quadratic equation without a solution.

"Dude. It's a tissue. Put it up to your nose and blow."

"It's scratchy," Sam says, and sniffs a shit ton of snot back into his head.

Dean closes his eyes and counts. Slowly. He swallows a comment with the words "princess" and "wimpy" and vulgar synonyms for female anatomy. He opens his eyes and holds out the cup of water. "Here. Drink all of it." He's pleasantly surprised when Sam takes the cup without complaint.

But then Sam takes the world's smallest sip, wrinkles his nose and coughs so hard he gags. "Tastes like ass," he manages.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Is there an echo in here? Just drink it, Sam."

Sam makes an epic bitchface, but throws the rest of the medicine-laced water back like a shot. The coughing and sputtering that follow could earn him an Emmy.

"I know. Your life is rough." Dean tosses the cup in the garbage can. Sam settles down and curls up into a ball. He shivers, looking smaller than anyone his size or age should look. Dean feels a little bad. "You cold?"

Sam nods and shivers again. "Chills."

The ancient heater near the window doesn't give Dean much hope, so he digs through Sam's duffle bag instead. He helps Sam sit up and tugs a long-sleeve shirt and a hoodie over his brother's head, pulling too-warm hands through the sleeves. He lifts the hood up over Sam's head, tightening and tying the strings under his chin so only his face is sticking out. He expects complaint but doesn't get any. He grabs the blankets from his own bed and tucks them around Sam, like he's the fillings of a giant hooded burrito. "Better?"

There's hesitation on Sam's face when he nods. "Yeah."

"Less than convincing. Still cold?"

Sam bites down on his lip. "My feet are frozen."

"More socks?" Dean asks, squeezing the burrito where Sam's feet are hidden.

"All the socks."

Dean makes another trip to the duffle bag and grabs three pairs of socks. He puts them on his brother one at a time, making Sam's giant feet even more giant.

("Sam needs new shoes," Dean said one day when he was 17 and his brother was 13. Sam had fallen asleep in the backseat with one long leg stretched out, shoved between Dean's seat and the door. Dean ran a finger over the hole in the shoe where Sam's little toe was sticking out.

"Again? We just bought those."

"His feet are bigger than mine now."

John glanced in the backseat. "I think Sammy's gonna be taller than you someday."

Dean traced Sam's ankle bone. "That sucks."

"Yeah. Doesn't mean you can ever stop looking out for him, though. No matter how tall he gets."

"I know. I won't.")

"Better now," Sam says when Dean finishes and tucks his feet back under the covers.

"Good. You want to eat something before you go back to sleep?"

Sam nods in between sneezes.

The fact that the microwave logo says "Kitch'nade" instead of the widely known "KitchenAid" probably explains why it takes Dean 20 minutes and every swear word he knows (plus a few he doesn't know) to make a 90-second cup of chicken noodle.

As he sets the cup on the nightstand, the sight of his drowsy, sniffly, hooded little brother drops his blood pressure a notch or two. "In case you're keeping track, the score is Microwave: 1, Dean: 0." He helps Sam sit up against a few pillows and holds out the cup.

Sam eyes it, but doesn't move a muscle.

"Here, Sammy. Eat some before it changes from lukewarm to lukecold."

Sam wrinkles his nose and palms his gut.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach. I think I want toast instead."

Dean sets the cup down so hard that broth sloshes all over his hand. "Fine, Sam. I'll go back to the store. I'll get you apple juice and liquid medicine and tissues with the fucking lotion and goddamn toast, okay? Will any of that make you happy?"

"No," Sam says, and Dean's about to blow before Sam speaks again. "Don't go. Please. I just want to sleep. Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

It's the puppy dog eyes. The ones he discovered at age 6 and proceeded to use to get John, teachers, girls, and Dean to do exactly what he wants. Those eyes are the reason Dean can't stay mad. The reason he can't say no. The reason he sighs and wipes his soup-covered hand on the blanket and climbs over Sam, laying down on the bed next to him.

Sam rolls over and presses his forehead against Dean's shoulder. Dean lets him nuzzle a little. Eventually Sam stills and quiets, minus the occasional cough or sniffle. Dean thinks he's probably asleep until he stirs and says, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm hot." Sam fumbles with the covers and groans.

"Okay, okay," Dean says, getting up and tugging the blankets off Sam.

"My feet. My feet are burning."

"On it," Dean says, taking off four pairs of socks, which is difficult when Sam is thrashing around like he's about to spontaneously combust.

"Dean," Sam whimpers. When Dean looks up, the problem is instantly evident. Sam is trying to tug the hood off his head, but the strings around his chin are a giant, knotted mess.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Sam's fingers away. "You're a disaster, you know that?" Dean asks as he works at the knot, but there's no bite to the words. Within seconds, the strings are loose. They work together to pull off the hoodie and long-sleeve shirt until Sam's in just his pants and an undershirt. He closes his eyes and sighs in relief.

Dean makes sure the blankets, socks, and shirts aren't too far out of reach. They'll probably need them again in the not-so-distant future. But for now he climbs back onto the bed next to Sam and uses a cool hand to brush sweaty hair away from his forehead. "Better?"

"Much."

"Think you can sleep now?"

Sam rolls onto his stomach and closes his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks, Dean."

Dean scratches Sam's back between his shoulder blades. It doesn't take long until his breath evens out into sleep.

World's Best Big Brother.

His 6-foot-tall trophy is right here.


	11. En Fuego

Prompt: Sleepy, feverish Sammy who has to stay awake for some reason.

"En Fuego"

It's been a long time since either one of them slept. The last time Dean crunched the numbers, the total was somewhere around 44 hours, and it's been 8 hours since then. He's too tired to do the math.

But the bitch of a hunt is finished. As soon as they hit a town with a motel, they're stopping and sleeping for three days. Maybe four.

"Would you quit that?" Dean smacks Sam's hand away as he tries to turn the heat up a notch. "If it's warm, I'm going to fall asleep."

Sam grunts. "How much farther?"

"About 17 miles, I think." Sam doesn't respond and Dean feels his eyelids growing heavy. He sits up straighter. "Hey. Talk to me. Keep me awake."

"Okay. I'm tired."

"Can we talk about something other than how tired we are?"

"Okay." Sam yawns. "But I am. Fucking exhausted."

Sam's yawn makes Dean yawn. 16 more miles. "Quit that."

"Sorry." Sam shivers.

Dean glances in his brother's direction. "Are you that cold? It's warm in here."

"Cold. Cold and tired." Another shiver serves as the punctuation to his sentence.

With one hand on the wheel, Dean reaches over and palms Sam's forehead. "You're a little warm. Are you coming down with something?"

"No. I don't think so. Just," he pauses to yawn again, "tired."

"Throat hurt?"

"No."

"Stomach?"

"No."

"Head?"

"No. Just…"

"…tired. I know." 13 more miles. If Sammy's sick, maybe they'll sleep for 5 days. Hell, maybe round up and make it a full week. Dean rubs his eyes. They feel like they're covered in thin layer of sand.

"Y' awake?" Sam asks.

"For now. Keep talking."

"How many more miles?"

"12."

"So fucking tired."

"I know, dude. I know."

They manage to stay awake long enough to make it to a motel. Dean gets a room – he gambles on a new card and pays for two nights up front. When he returns to the car, Sammy is sound asleep in the passenger seat. Figures.

Dean gets both of their bags from the trunk, slinging one over each shoulder, then opens the passenger door. "Hey. Sammy. Come on. Just a little walk, then you can crash on a bed, okay?"

Sam's cheeks look flushed, like his fever's up higher than it was a few minutes ago. "Sleepin' here," Sam slurs without opening his eyes.

"I see that. But you'll thank me tomorrow when your back isn't all fucked up." Dean doesn't add that he needs Sam in the room where he can keep an eye on him and whatever illness he managed to catch. "Come on, Sam. Up."

The sound Sam emits is dangerously close to a whimper, but he opens his eyes and drags himself out of the car. "Jerk," he mumbles.

Even though Dean is exhausted, he smiles. "Bitch." He locks the car and unlocks the motel room. As he puts their bags down, Sam face-plants onto the bed closest to the door. Dean is tempted to do the same, but he can't. Not yet.

He digs out the first aid kit and finds the thermometer. "Hey. Sammy." He sits on the edge of Sam's bed. "Let me check your temperature." Sam blinks twice and opens his mouth. Dean sticks the thermometer under Sam's tongue and presses a hand to his brother's forehead and cheeks. Definitely warmer than before. He needs Tylenol.

Dean almost falls asleep sitting up until the thermometer beeps. 101.6. It takes all the energy Dean has to get up and get three Tylenol and a glass of water. He doesn't have the energy to get Sam to swallow the pills and some water, but he does it anyway. He also tugs off his brother's shoes and pulls the covers to his shoulders. "Sleep, Sammy. You'll feel better when you wake up."

Dean barely manages to toe off his own shoes before collapsing onto the other bed. Then he finally, blissfully, falls asleep.

* * *

><p>At first Dean thinks the sound is a jackhammer in the parking lot. He groans and tries to reach for a pillow to cover his ears, but he's too tired. The sound doesn't stop. That's when Dean realizes the sound is too close to be in the parking lot. Whatever it is, it's in the room.<p>

"S'mmy?" He struggles to open his eyes. It's light in the room because he didn't turn the lamp off before crashing. He glances at the clock. He's only been asleep for two hours. Two fucking hours. But that noise. What is that noise?

Teeth, he realizes. Teeth chattering. With a rush of adrenaline, Dean sits up. On the other bed, Sam is shivering and his teeth are clinking together loud enough for Dean to hear.

Dean gets up so fast that his foot gets caught in a blanket. "Sammy?" He reaches for Sam's forehead and flinches. The heat is scorching. "Shit, shit, shit," he mutters, turning on the thermometer.

He pries his brother's lips open. Sam is shivering too much to get the thermometer under his tongue, but at least it's in his mouth. "Sam? Are you with me?" He shakes his brother's shoulder, but Sam's eyes remain closed. He's supposed to be sleeping. They're both supposed to be sleeping. But not like this.

The thermometer beeps. Dean is afraid to look at the display. 104.9. _Fuck._

Dean drops the thermometer on the nightstand and sprints into the bathroom. The water from the rusty faucet isn't cold enough. The polar ice cap would not be cold enough. He soaks a washcloth and runs back to Sam's side. He presses the cloth to Sam's forehead and cheeks, over his neck and the bruised skin under his eyes.

Sam stirs and groans. His eyes open, glassy and dull.

"Sammy? Are you awake?"

"D'n?"

Hell with all four letters. Two are all he needs. "Your fever spiked, Sammy. I'm trying to get it down, okay? Can you stay with me?"

"'Kay," Sam says, eyes locked on Dean's.

Dean pulls the blankets away and expects a protest from his brother, but doesn't get one. He lifts the hem of Sam's shirt squeezes the washcloth, running cold water over his stomach and chest. "Sorry it's cold."

"Feels good. 'M hot." Sam kicks the covers further away.

Sure enough, when Dean looks up, Sam's face is covered in sweat. The fever is breaking. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and uses the cloth to wipe sweat away. "How are you feeling? Anything bothering you?"

"Tired."

"Yeah. We only got about two hours of sleep. Your teeth were chattering loud enough to wake me up."

"S'rry." Sam's eyes drift closed.

"Hey. Sammy. Wake up. You're sweating right through that shirt. Can we get you out of it? Cool you off more? Then you can go back to sleep."

Sam doesn't look happy, but he opens his eyes and lets Dean sit him up and tug the shirt over his head. In the bathroom, Dean drops the sweaty shirt and warm cloth on the counter. He soaks a clean cloth. When he gets back to the bed, Sam's eyes are barely open.

"Hot," Sam murmurs.

"I know, man." Dean is doing all he can to wipe down rapidly cooling skin, but it's not fast enough. "Let me check your temperature, okay?"

This time Sam is able to keep the thermometer under his tongue. It beeps, and Dean reads, "100.7. Fuck. You're giving me whiplash."

Sam curls on his side. "So tired."

Dean wipes another bead of sweat from between Sam's shoulder blades. "Sleep, Sammy." He sets the cloth down. By the time he has the sheet pulled up to his brother's chin, Sam is out. Dean tells himself he's too tired to walk all the way to the other bed, but really he wants to be close to Sam. Just in case.

He curls up next to his brother and falls asleep within seconds.

Dean dreams of fire. Coals. Hell. Flame.

When he wakes, Sam is burning.

* * *

><p>Dean pulls his brother out of bed and half drags, half carries him to the bathroom. He alternates between "Sammy? Can you hear me?" and "It's okay it's okay it's okay" the whole way. A minute later, he's seated in the tub, holding his brother against his chest, both of them fully clothed. The water is cold, but Dean is still sweating from the heat radiating off Sam's skin.<p>

What's worse is that the cold water doesn't seem to be working. If anything, Sam's skin feels even hotter than when Dean woke up.

"Work with me, here," Dean says, letting the cold water soak them both. "Don't think I won't lug your sorry ass to the hospital."

But Sam stays asleep or unconscious and hot, hot, _hot_.

"Sammy. Wake up. Let me know your brain isn't boiling in there, huh?" He splashes water on Sam's face and neck, which elicits a weak moan. "That's it, Sammy. Open those eyes."

The response is sluggish, but Sam does, blinking like an owl. _Whooo, whooo_ Dean thinks to himself. Fuck, he is so sleep-deprived. Sleep-deprived, but relieved. Is it wishful thinking, or is Sam already feeling cooler? "How are you doing, Sam? You with me? Firing on all four cylinders?"

"Yeah." Sam moans again and leans forward, away from Dean.

"Hey. Where are you going? Where's the fire? I'm pretty sure you _are_ the fire."

"I'm hot," Sam says, dipping his forearms and chest into the water pooled in the tub. "You're too hot. Get the fuck away from me."

Unconscious to coherent and pissed in 2.4 seconds flat. Okaaay. At least hot means the fever's breaking again. Confident that Sam can hold himself up, Dean climbs out of the tub, dripping all over the place. Sam uses the extra room to submerge as much of himself as he can in the cool water. Considering he's well over 6 feet tall, it's quite a sight.

"Why'd you put us in here in our clothes?" Sam asks.

"Dude, your fever was around 105 or 106." Dean starts toweling himself off. "If I would have waited another second, we might not be having this conversation right now. How are you feeling?"

"Hot. Tired."

"Themes of the night, apparently. If I go get the thermometer, are you going to drown?"

"Kids can drown in less than 2 inches of water," Sam mumbles around a yawn.

"Good thing I'm a risk-taker." Dean grabs the thermometer, a pair of Sam's boxers, sweats, and a T-shirt. When he returns, Sam is almost asleep in the tub, but not drowning. "Hey. Open up."

Sam lets Dean place the thermometer under his tongue. Dean turns off the water and grabs all the clean towels he can find. When the thermometer beeps, he takes it from Sam's mouth. And stares.

"What?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. "100.3. I can't believe your temp dropped that fast. It's not natural." The second the words are out of his mouth, dread twists Dean's gut. _Fuck. It's not natural._

Dean thinks hard. He pulls the stopper from the tub and holds a towel out to his brother. "Come on. We're going for coffee."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure it's not just a coincidence?"<p>

"I'm positive, Bobby." Dean paces in the corner of the coffee shop, phone pressed to his ear. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Sam is still awake. "Every time he falls asleep, his fever skyrockets. As soon as he wakes up, it plummets. Not a coincidence."

"You boys been around any witches lately?"

"Our last hunt, as a matter of fact."

"Damn."

Dean can almost hear Bobby pinching the bridge of his nose. "You heard of anything like this before?"

"No, but that don't mean nothin."

When Dean looks at his brother again, he swears under his breath. Sam is still at the same table, coffee cup in hand, but his chin has dropped forward onto his chest. "Hey, hey," Dean snaps, running over and shaking Sam's shoulder. With a gasp, Sam sits up straight and almost knocks over his coffee. "There you go. You gotta stay awake, Sam. I know you're tired." Dean motions to the coffee cup. "You need another refill?"

Sam takes a sip and looks exhausted. "No."

He pats his brother's shoulder. "Keep drinking." He puts the phone back up to his ear and paces a few steps away. "Sorry, Bobby."

"No problem. How's he doing right now?"

"Tired. Fever's holding steady between 100 and 101. Not bad, but enough to make him want to do nothing other than sleep."

"But when he sleeps, his brain boils."

"Therein lies the dilemma."

Bobby sighs. "I'll start looking into it right now. You boys going to be okay?"

Dean glances over his shoulder. Still awake. Such a trooper. "I hope so. We've only slept 3 hours in the past 3 days."

"We'll figure it out. Then you can get some rest."

"Call me if you find anything?"

"Keep that brother of yours awake."

After a gruff goodbye, Dean pockets his phone. "Come on, Sammy. Let's go for a walk."

* * *

><p>A walk is a good idea in theory. It's almost impossible to fall asleep while standing and moving. Sam's fever is staying low.<p>

But Dean knows they can't keep walking forever. Sam's footsteps are getting slower, and he's limping from one side to the other, like he can't decide where he hurts.

Dean's exhausted, too. He's tripping over curbs and cracks in the sidewalk and his own two feet. He's seeing double more than he'd like to admit.

They're walking a small loop. From the car and coffee shop, they walk north two blocks, east for three, then south and west, back again. People have probably noticed them, but Dean doesn't trust himself to change up the pattern without getting lost. He's not thinking clearly enough.

"Please, Dean," Sam says when they get to the car on their 10th or 20th loop. "I'm so tired."

Maybe there are tears in Sam's eyes, or maybe they're just bloodshot from the lack of sleep, but the sight breaks Dean's heart either way. They stop walking. Dean sways on his feet. But he gets an idea. "Okay, Sammy. Okay. But we gotta make one stop first."

* * *

><p>By the time they hit the store and return to the motel, Sam is crying. He's trying to hide it, keeping his head down and his sniffles quiet, but misery is dripping off him in waves.<p>

Inside the motel room, Dean sets the bags on the nightstand. "All right, Sammy. Bed."

"I can sleep?" He sounds like a kid who still believes in Santa. He crawls between the sheets. "How?"

Dean digs through one of the bags for the overpriced ear thermometer. He tears open the packaging and holds the thermometer up. "While you're sleeping, I'm going to keep an eye on your temperature. I'll let you sleep until you hit 104. Then I'll wake you up until you cool down. Sound good?"

Sam's eyes are already closed. "Mmhmm."

Dean grabs a chemical cold pack from the bag. The pharmacy cashier gave him a funny look when he purchased every single cold pack in the store. If he wasn't sleep-deprived, he might have ignored her instead of telling her to fuck off. Oh well. He's not even sure if the cold packs will help, but at this point not much can hurt. Maybe they'll slow the temp increase. Give Sam a few extra minutes of sleep. It's worth a shot.

Dean twists the bag until it snaps. Instantly, it's cold against his fingers. He places the pack behind Sam's neck, and Sam groans. "Too cold?"

"No." He yawns. "'s good."

"Okay. Sleep, Sammy. I'll be right here."

Within seconds, Sam's breathing is deep and even.

Dean sticks the thermometer in Sam's ear to get a baseline reading. Sam doesn't flinch. The results go in a neat line on motel stationary.

_11:35 – 100.4_

Now he just has to keep himself awake. He does sit ups and pushups and tries not to think about how disgusting the motel carpet is.

_11:47 – 100.9_

He stands at the motel's small desk while he cleans out and organizes his duffle bag. It's been a while.

_11:56 – 101.4_

The switch on the lamp in the corner of the room isn't working. He unplugs the lamp, takes it apart, finds the problem, and puts it back together. It works.

_12:07 – 102.0_

He reads the manual that comes with the thermometer. Not intended for oral or rectal use. Go figure. He flips the cold pack over and puts it on Sam's too-hot forehead.

_12:15 – 102.7_

He splashes cold water on his own face. He checks his phone a thousand and one times to see if Bobby has called.

_12:25 – 103.4_

He daydreams about being asleep.

_12:31 – 103.9_

_12:32 – 103.9_

_12:33 – 104.1_

"Sam. Sammy. Time to wake up."

Sam groans and fights weakly against Dean and an upright position.

"Sorry, man. I know it sucks." One arm holding Sam up, Dean uses the other hand to grab a Tylenol and a bottle of water. "Open those eyes. I need you to take Tylenol. Drink some water."

It takes a minute, but Sam's eyes do open. He swallows the Tylenol and water and leans heavily against his brother's arm. He stays awake.

It only takes a minute or two for Sam to kick off the sheet and start sweating. Dean snaps two more cold packs and places one under both of Sam's arm pits.

_12:40 – 103.3_

"Did you sleep good?" Dean asks, wiping sweat away with a washcloth.

"Not long enough."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I'm hot."

_12:48 – 102.3_

Sam's eyes are starting to droop. Dean squeezes his brother's arm too hard. "No sleeping. Fever's not low enough yet."

Sam struggles to sit up straighter. "I'm trying so hard."

"I know you are."

A bead of sweat drips down onto Sam's eyelashes. He blinks it away. "Remember when you had that fever? High school. When you thought the ceiling was caving in?"

Dean puts the water bottle to Sam's lips. "No. Can't say I remember that."

Sam swallows. "I do."

They're quiet for a minute. "Sam? Is the ceiling caving in?"

Sam doesn't look up. "It already has."

_12:55 – 101.1_

"Almost there," Dean promises. "Then you can go back to sleep."

"Bobby find anything?"

"Not yet." Sam blinks too long. Dean wants nothing more than to let his brother fall asleep. What he wants and needs are never the same thing. Except sleep. He both wants and needs sleep. But he can't have it. "Eyes open, man."

The struggle to pull eyelids apart is obvious. "How long did it take?"

"For your fever to get to 104? Almost an hour."

"You could sleep, too. Set an alarm. Wake me then."

It's tempting. It's so fucking tempting. "I don't know…"

"An hour, Dean. I won't get that bad in an hour. You need sleep."

_1:03 – 100.1_

Dean replaces the cold packs, sets the alarm on his phone, and crawls in bed next to his brother.

* * *

><p>The first hour goes smoothly. Dean's alarm goes off just before 2:00. He groggily check's Sam's fever, wakes him, and works him through cold packs and sweat as his temperature drops. Then he sets his alarm again.<p>

This could work. Sleeping an hour at a time isn't ideal, but it's sleep. Once Dean has 4 or 5 hours in him, he might be awake enough to help Bobby with the research. Figure this thing out.

Dean clings to this glimmer of hope as he falls asleep.

* * *

><p>Something is wrong.<p>

First, it feels like he's been asleep a hell of a lot longer than an hour. Second, he's covered in sweat and so fucking hot.

Dean wishes (he prays) that the motel is on fire. That the blistering heat to his left is flame and embers that can be put out.

But when he turns on the lamp, it's not fire. It's Sam.

"Sam?" Dean yells, jumping out of bed. "Wake up!" He grabs Sam and tugs him into a seated position, but he just lolls against Dean's shoulder. "Fuck," Dean whispers, tugging Sam's shirt over his head. He lays his brother down again, activates a cold pack, and places it behind Sam's neck. When he tries to activate another, he squeezes so hard the bag explodes, chemicals soaking Dean's shirt and the nightstand and the carpet. "Damn it. Sam? Sammy? Wake up!"

He tries again and manages to get cold packs in Sam's armpits and against his forehead, but Sam doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

Dean's hands shake as he sticks the thermometer in Sam's ear. When it beeps, he's can't look at the display. It's bad, he knows it's bad. He braces himself and counts like he did when he was a kid, before pulling off a Band-Aid or jumping into a pool of cold water. _One, two, three._

107.4.

Dean cries out. Why the fuck is there a thermometer that gives numbers that high? Why doesn't it just say _DEAD_?

"Sammy, please," Dean begs. Sam's skin is flushed, sunburned from the inside out. Maroon. Ruby. Scarlet. These colors should be in the 64-pack of Crayola crayons, not on his brother's face and chest and the tips of his ears.

Dean tugs off his brother's pants. More cold packs. Under each kneecap and against his groin and god, Sam, _please wake up and bitch about that_.

Hands still shaking, Dean calls Bobby. "He won't wake up," Dean cries, too fast and too loud.

"Dean? What happened? What's wrong?"

"I fell asleep and my alarm didn't go off and Sam's fever is 107.4 and he won't wake up. I can't fucking get him to wake up."

"Okay, slow down, boy," Bobby says. "Panicking aint going to help either one of you. You got him in ice?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. Cold packs. Seven of them."

"Good. How's his pulse?"

When Dean puts his fingers on Sam's neck, it takes a minute for him to think about anything other than _hot burning scorching hot_ but then the finds Sam's pulse and counts. "Fast. 115."

"What about his breathing? He breathing okay?"

"That's fast, too. But yeah. He's breathing."

"Good. I assume you don't want to take him to the hospital?"

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "They won't be able to do anything for him. Tell me you're finding something, Bobby."

"I'm close, boy. Really close. Keep trying to wake him. Get him as cool as you can. I'll call you as soon as I have an answer."

"I will. I will. But hurry. Please."

After they hang up, Dean shakes Sam's shoulder. Slaps his cheek. Hard. Screams Sammy's name so loud it hurts his throat.

Nothing.

He sticks the thermometer in Sam's ear. 107.7. He looks at his phone. Sam was asleep for over three hours. The alarm is still set. Dean confused a.m. and p.m. Instead of setting the alarm for 1 hour later, he set it for 13 hours later.

Dean drops to his knees and lands in the spilled cold pack chemicals and cries.

* * *

><p>The ear thermometer is in a thousand pieces. Dean threw it on the ground after the reading hit 108 and stomped on it until the pieces became one with the carpet. After all, the point of buying the ear thermometer was to allow Sam to sleep. Seems stupid now.<p>

He's stopped trying to wake Sam. He knows his brother will wake when the curse is broken, or he'll die. Whichever comes first. No amount of shaking and slapping and yelling is going to change that. Not at 108 degrees.

Dean replaces warm cold packs. He sponges water over Sam's fiery skin. He prays. He waits.

It happens unceremoniously. Dean is pacing from the window to Sam's bed and back again when he notices Sam's breathing is a little slower. At first he panics, thinking _this is it, he's dying_, but then he gets a hand on Sam's chest. It's cooler.

"Sammy? Can you hear me?"

Sweat pours from Sam's pores and soaks the sheets. Dean wipes away as much as he can, trying to speed the process as the fever breaks.

Eventually, the sweating slows and stops. Skin that was flushed is now a healthy peach-pink. Sam's breathing and pulse are normal. Dean slips the thermometer under Sam's tongue. It beeps and Dean almost collapses with relief. 98.6. Perfect.

Dean's cell goes off. He answers on the second ring. "Bobby?"

"How's Sam?"

"His fever broke. Temperature's normal. Pulse and breathing are good."

"Damn, it's good to hear that. Wasn't sure it was going to work."

Dean presses his palm to his eye. "But…Bobby? He…Sam hasn't woken up yet."

The pause is a few seconds longer than Dean would like, but Bobby says, "He's been through a lot. Let him sleep. Who knows…"

He doesn't need to finish. Dean gets it. Even though the fever was supernatural, it might have natural consequences.

"Okay. I'll let him sleep."

"Call me when he wakes up?"

"I will. Thanks for your help, Bobby."

Bobby's muttering something about an ass-saving fee as he hangs up the phone.

Dean checks Sam's temperature one more time. Still normal. He removes the cold packs, covers Sam with a sheet, and smoothes sweaty bangs away from Sam's forehead. He starts cleaning up the room: gathering used towels and washcloths, picking the biggest of the ear thermometer pieces out of the carpet.

The next time he looks up, Sam's eyes are open. Dean drops everything and rushes to his brother's side. "Sammy? Are you with me?"

Sam stretches. Winces. Sighs. "What happened?"

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Sam's brain isn't completely fried. "I fell asleep for too long. Your temperature got up to 108. But Bobby took care of it for us. How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Yeah. But besides that. You good? You know what year it is and who I am and all that?"

"It's 1998 and you're one of the Hanson brothers, right?"

"Dude. _I'm_ one of the Hanson brothers? Have you _seen_ your hair lately?"

"Hey. I use way less product than you. In a 'who's manlier' contest, I'll win every time. Look at you. You're about to cry over there."

As much as Dean wants to argue, he can't. He swallows hard. "Thought I was going to lose you, Sammy."

The words hang heavy in the air. After a while, Sam nods. "But you didn't. I'm okay, Dean. I'm fine."

Dean swallows again and nods. "I gotta go call Bobby. Tell him you're okay. Why don't you get some sleep?"

Sam rolls onto his side, facing Dean. He yawns. "Thank him from me."

The call is quick. Now that the adrenaline is gone, Dean isn't sure how much longer he can stay awake. When he says goodbye and returns to the room, Sam is asleep. Dean eyes the empty bed for no longer than a second, bypassing it in favor of the small space in bed next to Sam.

He turns off the lamp and lies down quietly. Though exhaustion is tugging at his brain, he can't sleep yet. He reaches out and smoothes a hand over Sam's forehead. Cool. Healthy. Normal.

"How long are you going to do that?" Sam mumbles sleepily.

"What?"

"Checking for a fever while I'm asleep. How many days are you going to do that?"

Dean smiles into the darkness. "Forever." Because he can. Because his brother is alive and warm but not hot and perfect.

"Such a girl," Sam whispers.

"Sleep, Samantha."

And they do.


	12. Fighting Fair

Prompt: Sam. Dean. Sam and Dean. Wrestling. Dean pins Sam. Sam says, ugh, I don't feel good. Sam doesn't kid about this shit, so Dean's like what? Oh no, are you okay? Sam is like, haha, bitch and flips him over and WINS. And then the next morning they wake up and Sam is actually sick. And Dean thinks he's faking. And Sam is like nooo feel my forehead. And Dean takes really really really good care of him.

Fighting Fair

It happened on a Saturday in August when Sam was 16 and Dean was 20.

They were in Texas, and it was one of those days where the triple-digit heat grew and stretched and took on a life of its own.

The boys had been bickering since they woke up. Over who got to take the first shower. Over who had to make the 40 foot walk to the ice machine around the corner. Which greasy spoon to visit for lunch. Whether the capital of Kentucky was Frankfort or Louisville.

John ignored most of the arguments. Put an end to a few of them. But by late afternoon, it was clear that enough was enough. John swung the car onto the shoulder of the deserted road with a cloud of dirt.

"What are we doing?" Sam asked.

"Get out of the car," John growled. "Both of you."

They may have argued with each other, but the boys knew better than to question that tone.

John eyed the boys, arms folded over his chest. All three of them were already sweating. "Stand back to back."

They did.

"Don't slouch."

They didn't.

John circled them from one side to the other, coming to a stop in front of Dean. He nodded in Sam's direction. "Kid's taller than you now."

Over Sam's whoop of excitement, Dean argued, "No he's not. It's just his girly hair. Doesn't count."

"He's got about a half an inch on you since that last growth spurt."

"And I'm still growing," Sam said gleefully, turning to stand next to Dean.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, growing stupider."

"Your face is stupider," Sam countered.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. He motioned to the woods a few feet away. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in 15 minutes."

"Uh, Dad? What do you want us to do?" Dean asked.

"No weapons other than your hands. No biting. Don't hit below the belt. If you bleed on the upholstery, you're cleaning it up. Don't kill each other." He ticked each rule off on the fingers of his right hand, turned, and was gone.

There were a few beats of hot silence. "What the hell is he…" Dean started, but before he could get any further, he was knocked to the ground with an "oof," both shoulders pinned to the ground.

Sam grinned from on top of Dean. Patted his brother's cheek. "I think he means your 'take care of your little brother' duties are finished. I'm not so little anymore."

"Get off me," Dean growled. "That wasn't fair. I wasn't ready."

They stood and faced each other, Sam still smiling. "Fighting fair wasn't one of the rules."

They circled each other slowly. "Pretty pleased with yourself, huh?"

"Yep."

"You sure you're ready for this?"

"Bring it."

Dean won rounds two and three. Even with Sam's extra half-inch, Dean had 10 or 20 pounds on his brother's lanky frame, and he used it to his advantage.

The fourth round lasted the longest as Sam figured out Dean's strategies and grew more and more determined. Eventually, Sam managed the pin, putting them at a 2-round-a-piece tie.

Sam helped his brother up from the ground. "Truce?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

They walked back to the car and sat next to each other, sweating and breathing hard, but not bleeding.

Dean nudged Sam's shoulder with his own. "Just so you know, you'll always be my little brother. No matter how tall you get. I'll still take care of you."

Sam wiped the back of one hand across his forehead. Nodded. "Good."

John returned exactly 15 minutes after his departure. He eyed both boys carefully. "Can we go now?"

"Yes, sir," the boys responded in unison.

They didn't argue the rest of the day.

Over the years, Sam grew a few more inches and put on pound after pound of pure muscle. The boys continued to wrestle. Sometimes for training. Sometimes to settle an argument. Sometimes just for fun. Dean had to work hard to pin his not-so-little little brother, but he managed every once in a while.

This morning, the grainy motel TV is on some WWE main event. Apparently it's giving Dean ideas.

"Come on, Sammy." He bounces from one foot to the other, loosening up. "It's been a while. Let's go a few rounds."

Sam lets his head flop back against the pillow. "I'm too tired."

"That's because you just woke up. You need to move around."

"I don't think so. I don't feel very good."

"Wrestling will help." Dean watches the TV for a few seconds. "There. See that? I want to try that pin. Come on. One round."

Sam rolls his eyes and throws his legs over the side of the bed. "Fine. But if I puke all over you, it's not my fault."

"Whatever, drama queen."

They move a table out of the way and end up with a small but functional wrestling area. The first round lasts a few minutes. Dean is able to emulate the moves he saw on TV and effectively pin Sam to the ground.

"Easier than I thought," Dean grins.

Sam pushes Dean off him and gets up. "Best of 3."

"I like the way you think."

The second round goes quickly and it goes to Sam.

"I let you have that one," Dean says.

"Right. Gonna let me have this one, too?"

"Not a chance in hell."

Dean goes for it. He's got Sam with one shoulder on the ground, fighting to get the other one down, victory within reach, when Sam groans. "Think I'm going to puke."

Instantly, Dean backs off. "You okay?"

Sam curls up on his side. "I told you I don't feel good."

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't think…"

Before Dean can say another word, Sam reaches up, flips Dean onto his back and pins him there. "Sucker," Sam says with a grin.

"Fucker. Not fair."

"Fighting fair isn't one of the rules."

When Sam stands and offers Dean a hand, Dean ignores it and pushes himself up off the ground. "Fine. Come on, let's go do those interviews."

* * *

><p>Once the sun sets, the boys head to the cemetery to dig up a grave. Dean gets through a few shovelfuls of dirt before he realizes that Sam isn't doing anything. He's just standing there, staring at the grave like he's never seen one before.<p>

"Hey. Princess. You gonna help or what?"

"Yeah. Just…"

"Just what?"

"I don't feel very good."

Dean snorts and tosses another shovelful of dirt. "I'm not falling for that one twice in one day. Get your ass over here and start digging."

Sam does without further complaint.

The grave is almost half empty when Sam stops shoveling. "Dean, I really don't feel good. I think I have a fever."

Dean leans on his shovel and wipes at a few beads of sweat. It's so dark that he can barely see his brother even though they're mere feet apart. "So, I come over there, feel your forehead, and you pin me in the middle of a grave? Nice try. Keep digging."

"Dean, I…"

Dean hums Metallica loud enough to cut Sam off. He digs along to the beat.

"Bingo," Dean says when they finally hit the coffin.

"Thank god," Sam mumbles.

The salt and burn procedures are routine at this point. Flames let off a burst of heat and light up the night air. "Should be calmer around here now, huh?" Dean asks.

Sam doesn't respond.

Dean glances in his brother's direction. The flickering light allows him to see Sam. "Dude, are you shivering?"

"Told you, think I have a fever."

In an instant, Dean drops his shovel and heads to his brother's side. He places a calloused hand on Sam's forehead. "Shit. You're burning up."

Sam leans into Dean's hand. "I don't feel good."

"I know," Dean says gently, gathering their supplies, including both shovels. "Come on. Let's get you back to the motel."

Less than an hour later, Sam is tucked in bed with a thermometer in his mouth.

"103.4," Dean reads. He gives Sam Tylenol and ginger ale and places a washcloth soaked in cool water on his forehead.

"Thanks," Sam says. He scoots towards the middle of the bed and Dean fills in the space on the edge.

"You're welcome." Dean toys with Sam's hair, feathering it out against the white pillowcase. "Did you really feel sick this morning?"

Sam shrugs. "Yeah. But not this bad."

"I shouldn't have made you dig that grave. I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't have used my illness against you in a wrestling match. Sorry."

"Call it even?"

"Okay." Sam shivers and inches closer to Dean, who tucks the blankets tighter.

"Hey, once you're feeling better, can I have a wrestling rematch?"

"Sure."

"Just remember, fighting fair isn't one of the rules."

Sam manages a smile followed by a yawn. "Got it."

"For now, get some rest, little brother. I'll take care of you."


	13. Remember

Prompt: Sam + migraine + fever (AN: I know. Another one where Sam has a fever. Shh. It's fine.)

"Remember"

Four years is a long time. Too long. That's why Dean doesn't notice things the way he used to. The way he should.

He doesn't notice that Sam pulls on sunglasses when they're heading east, in the opposite direction of the setting sun.

He doesn't notice when Sam nudges the volume on the radio down once. Twice. Three times.

He doesn't notice that Sam spends more time moving his dinner around his plate than eating it.

He doesn't notice the way Sam keeps rubbing his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose.

No, Dean doesn't notice any of these things. So by the time Sam admits to what's going on, it's late.

"Hey. Sammy. You with me?"

"Huh?" Sam jabs one knuckle against his right temple. "Sorry. What?"

Dean rolls his eyes. He'd been asking Sam about the victim's sister. The very young, very gorgeous, very flirtatious sister. "Dude, you don't have to play dumb with me. I saw the way she looked at you."

"Who?"

"The sister," Dean says. "Did you hear anything I said?"

Sam shifts in his seat. "No. Sorry. Dean, I…"

Dean waits for the blank to be filled in with something terrible:_ I was thinking about my dead girlfriend. I was wrong, I don't want to hunt again. I want to go back to Stanford. I don't think we're ever going to find Dad_. "You what?"

"I have a headache."

_Shit._ Even though that should be better than the alternatives, it's not. Dean glances in his brother's direction, but it's dark. Too dark to see all the signs he missed. "A migraine?"

"Think so."

"Do you have aura?"

"Had aura. Flashing lights. Stopped now."

_Shit._ "So the pain started already? How bad?"

"It hurts."

The _a fucking lot_ is understood. "Did you take anything?"

"Imitrex with dinner."

Dinner was at least two hours ago, which means two things: 1. Dean is a terrible older brother. 2. This migraine is going to be horrendous.

Sam digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he speaks again, he sounds afraid. "Dean, it's getting worse."

And yeah, Dean gets it, because he's scared, too. He used to be so adept at spotting Sam's migraine symptoms that he'd hand over the pills before Sam even felt the first bolt of pain. Now he's not sure if he remembers how to comfort his brother. Or if he's the comfort his brother wants.

"Hey." Dean's voice is low and gruff. He puts one hand on Sam's knee and squeezes. "Don't worry about it. I'm going to stop at the first motel I see, and we're going to take care of this, okay? Close your eyes and try to relax."

Sam closes his eyes and rests his head against the window. Dean sees a billboard advertising a motel in the town seven miles ahead.

_Seven miles, Sammy_, Dean thinks.

Seven miles and four years.

* * *

><p>Dean goes through a mental list.<p>

Get a motel room. _Check._

Half-lead/half-carry Sam into said room. _Check._

Get Sam into the bed closest to the door. Take off his shoes. Tuck the covers up around his shoulders. _Check. Check. Check._

Bring him a glass of water from the bathroom. _Check._

By the time he's finished, Dean is feeling like a pretty damn good big brother. "You okay, Sammy? You need anything?"

Despite Dean's ministrations, Sam's face is still twisted up in pain. His eyes are shut tight. He squirms every few seconds, like he can't get comfortable. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam digs one hand out from between the sheets and cover his eyes. "The light."

Guilt slams into Dean like a semi. "Oh. Right." He dives for the lamp and clicks off the light that had been shining directly in Sam's face. "Sorry. I forgot. Better?"

The sigh Sam gives has relief written all over it. "Thanks."

"Need anything else? Can you take something different for the pain?"

"Not yet."

Dean nods even though Sam can't see him. He vaguely remembers that Imitrex is one of those bitchy medications which interacts badly with everything. It means they have to wait until it's out of Sam's system, whether it's working or not. "Get some rest, Sammy."

The heavy silence in the room is familiar. Dad always took off at the first sign of one of Sam's migraines. It wasn't that he didn't care or didn't want to help. It was just that he couldn't stand being cooped up in a dark, silent motel room for hours on end. As for Dean? He couldn't stand being away from Sam. Especially not when he was in pain.

It was always silent, but he's pretty sure it was never this dark. Then he remembers. He'd turn on the light in the bathroom and leave the door open just a crack. He'd sit on the floor outside the bathroom. In the three-inch wide strip of light, he'd read the lyrics that came with his AC/DC tape over and over again. He'd read the book he stole from the library that explained what could cause migraines and what could make them better. He'd make get well cards on motel stationary, including enough dirty jokes to keep it from being too corny. He'd wait for Sam to need him.

Now, Dean closes the bathroom door almost all the way, then reaches in to turn on the light. He grabs Dad's journal and sits on the thin carpet. The light is just enough that he can see Sam's bed. His brother is still and silent. Hopefully sleeping. He lets the journal fall open to a random page, and in the three-inch wide strip of light, he reads words he knows by heart. He searches for clues.

He waits for Sam to need him.

Dean spent four years waiting for Sam to need him. In the end, he was the one who needed Sam.

He wonders if maybe that's the way it has been all along.

* * *

><p>He's reading an entry about holy water when Sam stirs. He wonders if holy water helps migraines. After all, pain that intense can only come from the devil. Sam stirs again. And again. Then whimpers.<p>

"Sammy?"

"Hurts."

The barely whispered word catapults Dean into action. He's at Sam's side in 2.4 seconds flat, hands hovering a few inches away from his brother's arm, because he can't remember if touch makes the headache better or worse. "What can I do, Sammy?"

The broken sob of a response tears straight into Dean's heart. Every beat sends concern and helplessness and anger through his veins. "Shit," he whispers. Because really? People have been to the moon. People have invented phones that fit in pockets and computers that fit on laps. People have made airplanes and DVD players and fucking Easy Bake Ovens, but _no one_ can come up with a drug that can take his brother's pain away?

"Dean…"

"I know." Dean takes a chance and cards one hand through Sam's hair. "God, I'm so sorry, Sammy. I…"

But Sam interrupts by pushing Dean away and jumping out of bed. That's when Dean remembers. He should have put Sam in the bed closest to the bathroom. And he should have put a garbage can next to the bed. But he didn't remember, and he's too late.

Sam is not quite to the bathroom when he stops with one hand on his head, the other on his stomach, leans over, and throws up all over the carpet.

"Okay," Dean says, rubbing his brother's back as he heaves and trembles. "Okay, okay, okay." He says it so many times that it changes from individual words to one multi-syllable reassurance. He's not sure if he's trying to reassure Sam or himself.

Eventually, the heaving stops. Dean leads a shaky Sam to the correct bed and helps him with a sip of water. Sam curls up on his side, facing Dean.

"How are you feeling?"

"Cold."

Dean grabs another blanket and tucks it around Sam's shoulders. He wonders how many times he has tucked his brother in like this. A thousand. A million. A million minus four years. It makes him wonder. "Hey, Sam?"

Sam's eyes are closed, and his voice is soft. "Yeah?"

"Did you get migraines while you were at Stanford?"

"Yeah."

In the dim light, Dean notices a few strands of hair across Sam's face. He brushes them away with his thumb. "Who took care of you?"

Sam's words are low and slow. "First year? No one. Roommate knew I got them. He'd keep the room dark. Quiet. Go to the library for a few hours. After the first year? Jess."

Sam has this way of saying her name. It starts high with hope and happiness. But then it drops to a sad, soft sigh, like he's feeling her loss for the first time all over again. It wouldn't be the same if her name had been Rachel or Sara or Brittany. Just Jess.

"What would she do?"

Sam gives a hint of a smile. "Everything."

"Everything?"

"Doctors. Prescriptions. Acupuncture. Yoga. Massages. Chiropractors. Herbs. Diets."

"Did any of it work?"

"No. After trying all of that, she'd just lay with me. For hours. That helped."

The only thing that helped is gone. Dean swallows a lump in his throat and whispers, "I'm so sorry, Sammy."

Sam doesn't say it's okay. He doesn't say anything. After a few silent minutes, he shivers and winces.

"Still cold?" Dean asks.

"Chills."

He studies his brother's pained expression and tries to remember. "Do you usually get chills with a migraine?"

"No. Just with a fever."

The minute the words are spoken, dread falls over Dean like a blanket. He smoothes his hand across Sam's forehead. It's warm. Too warm.

Sam opens his eyes a crack. "Do I have a fever?"

"Just a little," Dean lies. "Don't even worry about it. I'll take care of you."

"I know," Sam says, letting his eyes fall shut. "I remember."

* * *

><p>The problem is that Sam can't stop shivering. The shaking and teeth-chattering are taking his migraine from horrible to so much worse than horrible there isn't even a word for it. Dean has piled every sheet and blanket in the room on top of Sam, but he's still trembling with cold and fever. He tried giving Sam Tylenol, but the 5 minutes he was able to keep the pills down wasn't long enough to do any good, and the puking took the pain to new heights.<p>

"Hurts," Sam cries shakily. Tears flow from squeezed-shut eyes. "So cold. _Hurts_."

"Shh," Dean whispers. He wipes at the tears with a lukewarm washcloth, wishing he could take the pain away along with the salt. "I know, Sammy. Shh."

A massive shiver wracks through Sam's body, followed by a broken sob. Dean cringes. If only he had remembered. If only he had recognized the signs, they might not be in this predicament. Even with the fever, it wouldn't be this bad if he had caught the migraine sooner.

Just when Dean thinks it can't get any worse, it does.

With Sam's next breath, he cries out, "Jess."

Dean doesn't know if Sam's calling out for Jess because he's forgotten she's not here or because he misses her, but it doesn't really matter. Before Dean can speak or think or even breathe, he's crawling into bed next to his brother.

Sam is a furnace. Dean pulls him into his arms. Their chests push against each other with every inhale and exhale. Dean's hands press into Sam's trembling back. The breath on Dean's neck is heavy and hot.

"It hurts," Sam whispers. It's the migraine and the fever and Jess all at once.

Dean doesn't move. He sweats and holds his sick little brother and wishes away those four years he was gone and all the pain attached. He doesn't let go.

After a while, Sam stops shivering. He's burning with fever, but he's still.

"You warm now?" Dean whispers in the dark.

Sam's voice is raw. "Yeah."

"How's your head?"

"Bad." The _really fucking terrible_ is hiding behind the word, but it's an improvement.

Dean hooks one thumb under Sam's shoulder blade. "Can I do anything?"

Sam tips his head forward so his hairline is against Dean's chin. "Jess used to hum."

"Hum?" Dean blows a few pieces of Sam's hair away from his mouth. "A lullaby?"

"AC/DC. Metallica."

Dean's grin stretches through the darkness. "The best lullabies. But I thought you hated that music."

"You used to hum. When I had a migraine and you thought I was sleeping. You'd…" Sam presses his forehead tighter against Dean's neck. "You'd hum so soft. I'd pretend to be asleep so you wouldn't stop."

And Dean remembers.

He needs to get up. He needs to take Sam's temperature and give him pain killers and fever reducers. He needs to change out of the shirt he sweated right through with the combination of blankets and a feverish little brother.

But he doesn't do any of that. Instead, he holds Sam, rubs his back, and hums a low melody in the back of his throat.

There's a lot of pain Dean can't heal. Even more he can't prevent. But there's some pain he can soothe. And he'll take what he can get.


	14. Cough Syrup

AN: My take on the Flagstaff thing. And - SHOCKER - Sam is sick. Thank you for reading and for the lovely reviews!

_If I could find a way to see this straight_  
><em>I'd run away<em>  
><em>To some fortune that I should have found by now<em>  
><em>I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down <em>

"Cough Syrup," Young the Giant

* * *

><p>It's been ten days since Sam left. Ten days of unanswered phone calls. Ten days of searching motels and bus stations and coming up empty handed. Ten days of lying awake, worrying and wondering.<p>

The motel stationary says _Gone. Don't wait up._ For some reason, Sam didn't cross a t, so it looks more like _Don't wail up_, so it's also been ten days of staring at that note and trying to make meaning out of something that's probably just a mistake.

Dean's on hold with a local hospital when there's a knock at the door. It's the maid, Dean thinks. It's someone who confused room 142 for room 124. But his hopes still soar as he pulls back the curtains.

Then his hopes sink like a lead balloon.

He switches the phone to his left ear and opens the door. John has a duffel bag in each hand, and Dean has to take a step back to let him through. "I'm on hold," he mumbles. He suddenly hopes he'll be on hold for a long, long time.

John nods and drops the duffle bags on the bed before heading into the bathroom.

"Sir?" a female voice comes across the line.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, but we haven't had any patients matching that description."

The frustration of these dead-end calls is so familiar that he barely feels it anymore. "Okay. Thank you for checking."

As Dean sinks down on the bed, he hears the toilet flush, followed by water running in the sink. When John opens the door, Dean asks, "Did you finish the hunt?"

John crosses to the duffel bags. "Would I be here if I hadn't?"

Dean winces. "Guess not."

"Where's your brother?"

Dean slides the phone's antenna out and in and back out again. "I don't know, sir."

The rustling of the duffel bag stops. "Excuse me?"

He holds the note out in his father's direction, careful to avoid eye contact. "He left ten days ago. I haven't seen or heard from him since."

John crumples the note and throws it on the ground. "And you didn't think this was something you should fucking tell me?"

Dean keeps his tone even and calm. "You were busy with the hunt. I've been looking for him. I've been driving around and making calls. Motels. Train stations. Hospitals."

"Yeah, and the fact that you haven't found him tells me you're doing a piss poor job," John yells. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Dean stares at the ground. "I'm sorry. Just…you two got in that fight before you left, and I thought that…"

Then John's hand is under Dean's chin, squeezing hard enough to cut off words and air. "Don't you dare blame this on me," John growls. "This is on your watch, Dean. You better find him. And you better hope he's okay."

John lets go just as black spots start to dance in Dean's vision. He chokes and gasps and is so focused on getting oxygen that he doesn't hear the door open or close.

But when he looks up, he's alone.

* * *

><p>It's been days since Dean has spoken to anyone. He has run out of people and places to call, asking about Sam. He doesn't say a word to the waitresses at the diner. They've learned that he's going to order eggs, bacon, pancakes, and a piece of pie to go no matter what time of day it is. He doesn't speak to the local bartender or the people he passes on the street or the motel clerk when he gets the room for yet another night because <em>Sammy might come back<em>.

So his voice is hoarse. When he dials Sam's cell (more out of habit than expected response) and his brother actually answers, Dean's voice is almost nonexistent. He clears his throat and tries again. "Sam?"

"Hey, Dean."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

Dean lets out a breath that's been trapped at the bottom of his lungs for two weeks. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Flagstaff."

"Arizona? What the hell are you doing there?"

"Had some stuff to do." If Sam is going to say anything else, the words are cut off by a cough sounds so much like inhaled pool water Dean can smell the chlorine.

"Are you sick? Do you need me to come out there? What the fuck kind of stuff did you have to do? Why didn't you answer your goddamn phone? Do you know how worried I've been? How pissed Dad is?"

Sam's laugh is breathless and leads to another thick cough. "You suck at wait time."

"You're sick. I'm coming out there." Dean holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder and starts tossing dirty clothes and weapons into his duffel bag.

"Are you still in Iowa?"

Dean swallows down the _of course I'm still here, you idiot who disappeared_ and says, "Yeah."

"I'm at the bus station. Let's meet half way. Wichita."

But the thing about worry is that it's one step away from anger, and Dean's been worried for far too long. "You'll be there when I get there? You won't leave a fucking note on the side of the road and head to Seattle for a couple of weeks?"

"Dean. I'll be there." Sam coughs again.

"Charge your phone. I'm going to call you every hour. And you better answer."

"I will. I gotta go buy a ticket."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

Dean puts his duffel bag on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay."

There's a smile in Sam's voice when he says, "I'm good. I'll see you soon."

Fucking Flagstaff.

* * *

><p>An hour is too long. Dean lasts exactly 49 minutes on the road before deciding he can round up and call his brother. He taps the steering wheel nervously as each ring takes him closer and closer to voice mail.<p>

"You're early," Sam says on the fourth ring.

"Close enough. Are you on a bus?"

"Left 20 minutes ago." Sam coughs so loudly that it hurts Dean's ear, which means it's gotta be brutal on Sam's chest.

"You sound like shit."

"The other passengers are looking at me like I have tuberculosis."

"Are you sure you don't have TB?"

"Just a cold, Dean. I'm fine. Did you talk to Dad?"

Dean moves into the left lane to pass semi. "Left him a message. Told him you were okay and that I was going to meet up with you."

"Thanks. Where are you?"

"I don't know. BFE." He slides back into the right lane. "Are you going to tell me what you were doing in Flagstaff?"

Sam's laughter should be a great sound, but it's a minor chord and the other two notes are illness and secrets. "Maybe later. Drive safe."

Dean holds the phone to his ear and listens to the silence for a while.

* * *

><p>Thirteen phone calls later, Dean's at the bus station in Wichita. There are a handful of other people around, yawning, staring down the empty road, and checking their watches. A chubby guy leaning against a mini-van offers Dean a cigarette, and he accepts just so he'll have something to do with his hands and his nerves.<p>

The cigarette is gone and Dean's contemplating asking for another when the headlights of a bus come into view.

"Finally," cigarette guy mutters.

"No kidding."

"My kid's on that bus. What about you?"

Dean almost says his kid's on the bus too, but then he realizes that this guy's definition of "kid" is different than his. "My brother."

"Enjoy your time with him."

The bus brakes squeal to a stop and Dean says, "Thanks. I will."

As soon as the door is open, people pour of the bus. Men carrying suitcases. Women carrying sleeping children. A couple of teens with backpacks slung over their shoulders. And dammit, Sam, couldn't you be impolite just this once and push your way to the exit first?

Then there he is. Walking down the bus steps with those ridiculously long legs, and Dean knows they've only been apart for 2 weeks but he swears the kid has grown at least a couple of inches. Sam's eyes scan the crowd before landing on Dean. A smile stretches then falls away with a cough that gets carefully smothered in the sleeve of his jacket.

Sam edges his way past people until Dean's got his arms full of too tall, too warm, too skinny little brother.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, digging one hand into Sam's long hair and the other into his collar and not letting go.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean doesn't want to move. He wants to hold on forever. But then Sam coughs and Dean can feel the rattle in his own lungs. He releases Sam for triage. Skin is a few degrees too hot, pulse is fast, and Dean can't even get a respiratory rate because coughing fits keep interrupting his counting.

But at least Sam is smiling. "I'm okay. I'm good."

Dean grabs Sam's duffel and slings it over his own arm. "Good. Let's go."

They get in the car and Dean turns the wheel in the direction of the nearest hospital.

* * *

><p>There's a hole in the threadbare blanket that one of the nurses brought in. Dean keeps sticking his thumb through it, in and out and back in again.<p>

"If I would have told you I was leaving, you would have stopped me."

Dean looks up. He takes the plastic tube from Sam's hand and guides it back up to his mouth. "Dude, on the way here you didn't even want to talk about the weather, and now that you're on a breathing treatment you want to have a heart to heart?"

Sam smiles around the mouthpiece between his lips.

And that's the thing. He keeps doing that. _Smiling._ This kid with the one-oh-four fever and the IV in his arm and the severe bronchitis that's not quite pneumonia (yet), keeps _smiling_ more than he has in years and it's hitting Dean so hard he's sure he's going to have a bruise right over his heart.

"You're right, though," Dean says softly. "I would have stopped you."

"I just wanted to see what it was like. Being on my own." He coughs and shoves the mouthpiece back into place before Dean can get a hand on it.

"Look how well that turned out for you."

"I'm fine," Sam says, but a coughing fit negates the statement.

Dean grabs the tube and pats Sam's back and waits for the fit to end. The steam coming out of the tube smells medicinal and must taste like ass. But as soon as the fit's over, Dean repositions the mouthpiece and Sam breathes in the steam and doesn't complain. Dean brushes away a few strands of hair that have fallen into fever-bright eyes. "So, what'd you do for two weeks? Listen to NPR? Watch documentaries? Eat disgusting pizza with vegetables?"

Sam's eyes flick in the direction of his clothes on the chair next to Dean. The movement is so subtle that most people would have missed it, but Dean isn't most people. "Yeah," Sam says, not bothering to take the tube out of his mouth.

Dean stands to prevent himself from diving into the pile of Sam's clothes, into the pockets and the secrets form the past two weeks that are obviously hidden there. He clears his throat. "I'm gonna go see if I can get those prescriptions. Then we can get you out of here."

Sam nods and fucking _smiles_.

* * *

><p>"Cough syrup isn't a treatment for any illness."<p>

They're in a motel on the outskirts of Wichita, and Dean's got a bottle of cough syrup in his hands. The real deal, with codeine. "This is the good shit, Sammy. Pretty sure it treats plenty of illnesses." He carefully pours the thick, red liquid into the measuring cup.

Sam plugs his nose with one hand and swallows the medicine with the other. "Nope." He takes a sip of water. "The cough is a symptom, not the illness, and the cough syrup only treats the symptom."

Dean grunts and sticks another pillow behind Sam's head. "If you're so smart, here's a math problem for you: if 1 hotel pillow equals 2/3 of a real pillow, how many pillows does it take for Sammy to be vertical enough to breathe?"

Sam laughs, which turns into a cough. At least it sounds less painful than it did before the hospital. "This is enough."

Dean pulls the blankets up. Tugs gently on Sam's earlobe. "You need anything?"

"Just sleep. I'm good."

Dean nods and waits for the codeine to kick in. He doesn't mean to say anything else, but then he does. "You look different."

"Different how?"

"Tall. Happy."

Sam smiles. "It's nice being happy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Not so nice being tall." Sam yawns. "Always hit my head on…" He falls asleep before he can finish the sentence.

Dean doesn't waste a second. He grabs the jeans Sam just took off and checks the pockets. He comes up with a knife and Sam's wallet, but even the hidden folds of the wallet don't reveal anything unusual. Next he goes for the jacket. There, in an inside pocket, Dean finds an envelope. He pulls it out and dumps the contents on the empty bed.

A photocopy of an application for Yale University. A brochure about Harvard. Receipts for application fees for Stanford, George Washington University, and Yale. All dated within the past two weeks. The room feels hot and cold and Dean thinks he's going to be sick until Sam's voice startles him.

"That was fast." The words are thick with exhaustion.

Dean slowly sets the envelope down. He blinks back tears, but knows they're going to come anyway. Because Sam is happy. But Flagstaff was cough syrup. It was a temporary treatment for the symptoms, not the problem. The only real treatment is right there in front of Dean's face and he hates it, he _hates_ it, but fuck if he's going to be part of the problem.

When he turns, Sam's eyes are heavy-lidded. Dean swallows hard. "When you leave, you say goodbye, all right? I won't try to stop you. Just...say goodbye. Okay?"

Sam blinks a little closer to sleep before nodding. He coughs. "Okay, Dean. I promise."

Then Sam sleeps and Dean takes a shower because tears in the shower don't count, and if he keeps going through the motions, he won't have to stop and think about how he's going to lose his brother for good someday soon.


	15. Spiral

AN: You guys. Sam doesn't have a fever in this one. I think I deserve an award or a merit badge or something.

Anyway. Sam is 16ish and Dean is 20ish. Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p>"Dean, come on. Please. I'm terrible at forging signatures, and you're awesome at it."<p>

"Kiss ass."

Sam waves the permission slip in front of Dean's face. "Please? Please please please?"

"We aren't even going to be here through the end of the season. I don't know why you want to try out."

"I'd get to play in at least the first 4 games. Come on. I'm already begging. What more do you want?"

Dean considers. "I want you to do all of the laundry the entire time we're here."

Sam opens his mouth to complain. Closes it. Lets out a sigh. Sets down the permission slip and holds out the pen.

The smile on his face is rivaled only by the one a week later when he announces that he made the team.

* * *

><p>"You'll be at my first game, right? Coach says I'm probably not going to start, but I'll be one of the first subs. I'm actually going to get to play."<p>

Dean nods. "Sure, Sammy. I'll be there." What Sam lacks in soccer skills, he makes up for in speed and strength. Hunting skills. "I'll bring pom poms. Make a poster. Paint a…what's your number again?"

"Six."

"Paint a blue and white 6 on my cheek."

"Dean."

"Oh! A megaphone. Where do you think you find a megaphone? Wal Mart? Wal Mart carries everything. Let's go get a megaphone. Then I can cheer for you extra loud."

"Never mind. I don't want you to come to my game."

Dean just laughs.

* * *

><p>The afternoon before the first game, the apartment phone rings. "Hello?"<p>

"Dean?"

"Sam? What's wrong?"

A pause. "Can you come pick me up?"

Dean checks his watch. "Is practice over already?"

"No. I…I got hurt. I'm in the nurse's office. Can you come get me?"

Dean's not even sure if he responds before hanging up and taking off.

* * *

><p>There's an ice pack on Sam's leg, but Dean can still see swelling and bruising. "What happened?"<p>

"Tripped over another guy's foot. Twisted it."

"Ouch, kiddo. You ready to get out of here?"

Sam nods. When Dean holds out an arm, Sam refuses the help. "I can walk."

"You sure? That leg looks pretty bad."

"It's fine." Sam takes a step. A slow, shaky step. "I wanted to keep playing, but Coach made me call."

"Coach is a smart man."

With every limped step, Dean resists the urge to reach out and carry his brother. By the time they get to the car, Sam is breathing hard and sweating.

Dean drives straight to the hospital.

* * *

><p>"Well Sam, I'll get you some pain medication, then we'll take a few x-rays and see what we're dealing with," the doctor says.<p>

"I don't need pain medication," Sam pouts. The fact that Dean dragged him here against his will is making him act like a five-year-old. "It doesn't hurt."

"Really? Because your blood pressure is through the roof, which is usually a pretty good indicator of pain."

"Your machine must be broken. I'm fine."

The doctor looks to Dean, who gives an apologetic smile and shrug.

"Someone from transport should be here to take you to radiology soon."

Once the doctor is gone, Sam asks, "When he says my leg is fine, I can play in the game tomorrow, right?"

Dean sighs. "We'll see, Sammy."

"Just one game. Just for once, I want to be…"

* * *

><p>"Well?" Dean asks.<p>

"I'm afraid it's not good news," the doctor says as puts two films on the board and flicks on the light.

Dean feels sick. That's not how bones are supposed to look.

"Spiral fractures of the tibia and fibula. Fairly common for this kind of injury."

"But I'm okay, right?" Sam asks, despite what he can clearly see to the contrary. "I can play in my soccer game tomorrow?"

"Sam, the only reason I'm not suggesting surgery right now is because you're young and I think you'll heal okay. But you're going to be in a cast for 6 to 8 weeks. No walking for at least 4 weeks. Sorry to say, but you definitely will not be playing soccer anytime in the near future."

Sam lets his head fall back against the pillow. He closes his eyes. His lower lip trembles.

"Hey," Dean says softly, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "It's okay, Sam. Another year, all right? You can play soccer next year. I promise."

But he knows that Sam knows it's a lie.

"It hurts," Sam says, just above a whisper.

Dean looks to the doctor, who nods and steps out of the room. "I know it hurts," Dean soothes as he runs his fingers through Sam's hair. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

A sob breaks through Sam's lips. "It hurts," he says again, and then he's crying so hard with each exhale that Dean's afraid he's never going to inhale again. Tears stream down his face and land on the practice jersey that won't be replaced with a game jersey.

"That's all right," Dean says. "You cry, Sammy. That's okay. I know it hurts."

The doctor returns with a needle and syringe. Without a word, he cleans a spot on Sam's arm, injects the medication, and covers the spot with a Band-Aid.

"It hurts," Sam whispers, even though his muscles have relaxed and the pain lines on his face have smoothed.

"What'd you give him?" Dean asks.

"Morphine. It'll keep him comfortable while we get the cast on."

Dean nods like comfortable is something Winchesters can achieve.

* * *

><p>Sam doesn't go back to school. It can wait until the next town.<p>

Dean gives Sam his pain medication and helps him with his crutches and does all of the laundry and lies and tells Dad that Sam fell down the stairs.


	16. Fresh Air and Sunshine

AN: Dean goes to visit a sick little brother at Stanford. They take a trip to the beach for some fresh air and sunshine.

Based more on my own college experiences than Stanford.

* * *

><p>The door swings open a few inches when Dean knocks, and isn't that just safe and fantastic.<p>

"Yeah," a non-Sam voice calls from inside.

Dean pushes the door further, but meets resistance half way. The first thing that hits him is the smell. It's a combination of dirty socks and old cheese and air freshener that's somehow contributing to the problem rather than solving it. As he squeezes through the door and steps over shoes and beer cans and, inexplicably, a garden hose, he wonders if maybe he got the room number wrong.

The living room, if it can be called that, is miniscule and the smell is even stronger. Threadbare couches. A huge TV. More beer cans. Books. Papers. Pizza boxes. There's so much stuff that it takes him a minute to realize that the thing on the couch is not stuff, but a person reading a book.

"Sam Winchester doesn't live here, does he?"

The guy is so white he's almost translucent (and isn't this California?) with short blond curls and muscles that make Dean think he does more than sit on the couch and read all day. He sticks a pencil in the book. "Maybe. Who wants to know?"

"I'm his brother. Dean."

The guy's eyebrows lift. "No shit. Sam's got a brother?"

The words are a bee sting. "Yeah. Me."

The guy dumps his book on the ground (where Dean notices a stain in the middle of the carpet that may or may not be alive) and rushes forward to shake Dean's hand. He's almost as tall as Dean and has a firm, warm handshake. "Hey, I'm Tyler. It's nice to meet you. I can't fucking believe Winchester didn't tell me he has a brother. Did you go to Stanford?"

"Harvard, actually." Dean smirks. "So, Sam lives here?" The question is answered by a coughing fit that Dean recognizes both from his childhood and from the last two phone conversations with Sam. "Yahtzee."

The coughing is coming from a room off to the left. Dean steps carefully, but there's still a crunch under his shoe that could be chips or a cockroach or broken glass. When he sticks his head in the door, he finds a bedroom even tinier than the living room. Between the bunk beds, wardrobes, and desks, there's not an inch of empty wall space.

At least the floor is clean enough that he can walk inside, where he finds Sam lying on the bottom bunk, head in some chick's lap, coughing up a lung. The girl is dark hair and olive skin and delicate features, and if Dean couldn't hear how positively shitty his brother's lungs sound, he'd think Sammy was faking just to get this girl to rub his back and stroke his hair.

"You're okay," she's saying between coughs. "It's okay." Dean clears his throat and the girl looks up. Her smile is toothpaste-commercial brilliant. "Hi."

"Is he all right?"

"He will be." The smile doesn't waver. "I'm Kendra. And you are…?"

"Dean. His brother."

"Dean?" Sam asks when he's finally able to take a breath that doesn't end in lung expulsion.

Dean wants to rush to Sam. To push this Kendra girl out of the way and take care of his brother like he used to. But a lot has changed, so he stays put. He takes in Sam's pale skin (not quite as pale as Tyler, but too close for comfort), sweaty bangs, and limbs that are trembling with chills even beneath blankets. "Hey, man. Not doing so great, huh?"

"What are you doing here?" He has to stop to take a breath after three words, so it sounds more like a too-short Haiku than a question.

"You really think you can call and tell me you have pneumonia and I won't show up?"

"Dude, why didn't you tell us you have a brother?" Tyler asks. When Dean turns, Tyler is leaning against the doorframe, which is missing a solid six-inch long chunk.

"Never came up," Sam says.

Another bee sting, but Dean only feels it for a second before Sam starts coughing all the way down to his toes. Kendra holds a cup of water up to his lips.

"Are you his girlfriend or something?" Dean asks her.

"Hell no," Tyler says. "She's mine. I'm just letting Sam borrow her so I don't have to play nurse."

Kendra stops smoothing Sam's hair long enough to flip Tyler off. "I usually make Tyler come over my place so I don't have to step foot in this shithole. I'm making an exception."

"'s not a shithole," Sam mumbles.

Tyler laughs. "Damn straight, buddy."

"Shh." Kendra smoothes her tiny hand over Sam's forehead. "Poor thing. You must be delirious."

"So, Dean," Tyler says. "How long are you around? Gonna be here for the weekend?"

Sam's eyes are closed, but Dean can tell he's not sleeping. "I don't know. Just wanted to make sure this kid was still alive."

"He's been pretty sick, man. Coughing so much I've had to sleep at Kendra's place every night this week. It's been torture," Tyler says with a wink and a lewd gesture, but Dean doesn't hear the humor, just _Sammy sick and alone_.

Kendra eases Sam's head off her lap and onto a pillow. To Tyler, she says, "Come on, asshole. Let's let these two catch up." She places a kiss on the top of Sam's head and says, "Feel better, okay? I'll check on you later."

Sam opens his eyes. "Thanks, Kendra."

"Yeah, thank you," Dean says as she walks past.

"Nice to meet you."

Tyler wishes Sam well and closes the door behind him as they leave.

"You didn't have to come," Sam says once they're alone.

There's a textbook on the edge of Sam's bed that has greater length, width, and depth than a dictionary. He picks up the book and thinks it wouldn't be terrible bicep curl material. "Dude. Do you actually have to read this?"

Sam laughs and coughs. He loughs. "Yep."

"Looks miserable."

"Your face looks miserable."

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "You really want to go there, pneumonia boy?"

"I look awesome."

Dean sets the textbook on one of the desks and sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to bump his head on the bed above him. He smoothes his palm over Sam's too-hot forehead. When Sam leans into the touch, Dean scratches lightly at the roots of Sam's hair. "Headache?"

"Mmhmm. You on a hunt?"

"Nope. Came all the way out here just for you."

"Special."

"Something like that."

The conversation is halted by a coughing fit so terrible that Dean pulls Sam into a seated position so he won't choke to death. It lasts a few minutes, and when it's over Sam's head falls on Dean's shoulder as he gasps for breath.

"Well," Dean says, patting Sam's back, "that was fun. Didn't the doctor give you any cough medicine?"

"Only at…night. Otherwise…he wants…"

"Okay, okay. Save your breath. I get it. During the day he wants you to cough all the shit out of your lungs."

Sam nods into Dean's shoulder and shivers and breathes and doesn't say a word.

Damn, but Dean missed this kid.

After a few more minutes, Sam's breathing evens out. Dean grabs the cup of water and Sam drains it in two large gulps.

"More?"

"Yeah. Please."

The way Sam curls up on the mattress and clutches the pillow to his chest makes Dean feel helpless. Someday he'll figure out a way to salt and burn pneumonia. For now, he'll get his brother a glass of water. Even though that means heading back out into the living room, where he notices a half-eaten sandwich in the science-fair-project stages of mold growth and a few half-full cups of cloudy liquid. The bathroom is even worse. Soap scum. Toothpaste stains (at least Dean hopes they're toothpaste stains). Strands of hair in various colors and lengths.

No wonder Sam got so sick.

He uses his elbow to turn on the faucet and fill the cup, then heads back into the bedroom.

"Okay, first," he hands over the cup, "sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I think your goldfish is dead."

"Pastrami? Nah. Sleeping."

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "How long has Pastrami been sleeping?"

"Couple of weeks," Sam says with a shrug.

"Right. Second, why do you have a snow shovel in your dorm room in California?"

"Long story," Sam says between gulps.

"I bet. This place is disgusting. And considering some of the places we've stayed, that's saying something."

Sam coughs. "We clean on Sundays."

"There's this stuff called soap, and I think you're supposed to…"

"I like it," Sam interrupts. He hands the cup back to Dean and presses his head into the mattress, clutching the pillow in both arms. "When it's clean, it looks temporary. The mess is ours. Mine. It means I'm really here."

There's not much Dean can say to that.

He sighs and presses his palm flat against the top bunk. He doesn't know how Sammy sleeps here. It makes him claustrophobic. "What do you say we get out of here for a while?"

Sam wrinkles his nose. "And go where?"

"Aren't we pretty close to the ocean?"

"Less than an hour."

"Fresh air might be good for your lungs. Warm sunshine to knock back those shivers you've got going on. Waves to lull you to sleep for a little while."

"Did you really just say 'lull?'"

"C'mon. You can sleep on the way there. I know you've missed the Impala."

A small smile. "Maybe I missed her. Not you. Never miss you."

"Is that a yes, bitch?"

"It's a yes. Jerk."

* * *

><p>Sam falls asleep before the Impala is even in drive.<p>

Dean probably should have asked which way to go, but he's got a good sense of direction and figures as long as he keeps going west and south, the pavement will eventually turn to sand.

Sam sleeps and coughs and drools and sleeps some more. When Dean finds a place with parking and public access, he drives past. Let sick, sleeping Sams lie, and all that. He drives aimlessly along the beach until Sam coughs himself awake, rubs his eyes, and asks, "We here?"

"If I get any closer, we'll be in the Pacific, and I doubt my girl," Dean pats the steering wheel, "would appreciate the salt on her paint job. How'd you sleep?"

"Good."

Dean pulls into a parking spot. "You used to whine about sleeping in the car. Now look at you."

"I whined when you and Dad were up front and I was shoved in the back with long legs and growing pains."

Dean shakes off a memory of rubbing Sammy's shins as he cried silent, painful tears. "Yeah, yeah. Woe is you. Hey, grab that water bottle, will ya?" When Dean steps out of the car, he's hit with a warm breeze that leaves salt on his lips. He smiles as they walk towards the bridge over the dune.

"I love the beach," Sam says. "This was a good idea."

"Have you forgotten? All of my ideas are good ideas."

Sam seems to consider this. "Summer of 1993. Giving yourself a haircut. Using a knife."

"Dude. I meant to make it that short. And I only needed 16 stitches."

They start walking up the stairs and Sam laughs. "Fine. Freshman year of high school." He pauses to cough. "Sneaking out to go to that party."

"Like I told Dad, that tree came out of nowhere. Totally not my fault I backed into it. Still a brilliant idea." Dean reaches the top of the stairs.

A few steps behind him, Sam coughs. "Okay. Two words," he chokes out. He's gasping a little between coughs, which makes Dean turn. Sam is stopped, shoulders are heaving, hunched forward with one hand on his chest.

Instantly, Dean is at Sam's side, helping him sit down and take a drink of water. He pats his brother's back between his shoulder blades. "You okay?"

Sam nods and coughs for a minute before repeating, "Two words." _Gasp. Choke._ "Jenny Freeman."

Despite Sam's breathing difficulties, Dean has to laugh. "All right. I'll give you that one. Jenny Freeman was a really fucking bad idea."

Sam grins and his breathing slows a little. "Knew it."

"But this? Fresh air and sunshine? Awesome idea. Gonna knock the pneumonia right out of you."

"Long as the stairs don't kill me first."

Dean rolls his eyes and stands. "Come on, princess. I'll give you a piggy back ride down to the water."

"Really?"

"One time offer. Don't get used to it." He crouches down, and within seconds he has 6 feet of fever-warm little brother on his back. Sam's arms grasp loosely around Dean's neck. Dean's hands hoist under Sammy's knees, which are clinging tightly to his waist. Dean groans as he heads up the last few steps and across the bridge. "Damn, did you gain the freshman 15 or the freshman 50?"

Sam's laugh is loud and congested. "You mock, but you haven't tasted the cafeteria's orange chicken. It's amazing."

Dean grunts. "Can't wait to try it when you treat me to dinner after this."

Instead of arguing, Sam says, "I'm glad you're here, Dean."

He swallows hard. "Me too." He doesn't set Sam down until they reach the water's edge.

* * *

><p>They've been up to their knees in the ocean for a while when Dean notices that Sam is shivering.<p>

"Hey. Kid with fever. Come on. Let's warm up on the sand, eh?"

Sam shivers through a nod. "Okay."

They walk far enough that the rising tide won't reach them for a while, and sit side by side. Dean's feet are so evenly coated with sand that he can't see skin. "Do you come out here a lot?"

Sam pulls his knees up to his chest and coughs. "Not really. Too busy with classes."

"Damn shame." Dean grabs a piece of driftwood and starts writing in the sand. S…A… "But you're good? You like the whole college life?"

"Yeah. I am. I do."

Sam stretches his legs out and shifts side to side, then rubs at his back. Dean should have thought to bring a couple of chairs. "Here," he says, turning sideways. Sam gets the idea. He turns in the opposite direction and leans back. Sam is facing north and Dean is facing south, both staring down endless lengths of beach and sea, Dean supporting Sam's back with his own.

"Thanks."

"No problem. So. Tyler seems…"

"…like a douchebag?"

"Your words. Not mine."

Sam laughs. "Seems that way. He's cool, though. We get along. Could be a lot worse."

Dean doesn't like the way he can feel the rattle of Sam's lungs in his own. He breathes slow and deep, as if he can transfer oxygen by osmosis. "That Kendra girl isn't tough on the eyes."

"Dean, don't even."

"Just saying, Sammy. What about you? You havin' sleepovers with any pretty little coeds? Dude, do you guys actually do the hair-scrunchie-on-the-doorknob thing from the movies?"

"Are scrunchies even a thing anymore?"

"Do I look like a guy who knows about scrunchies in any context other than this one? Besides," he nudges a shoulder backwards into Sam's, "you're avoiding the real question. Any Stanford girls in your world?"

For a minute, the only sounds are waves and coughing. Then, "There is this one girl. But…"

"But what?" Dean grabs the bottle of water and passes it back to Sam.

"She's Kendra's roommate. I don't think she even knows who I am, other than The Freakishly Tall Guy Who Lives with Tyler."

"You could change that, you know."

Sam just grunts. He slouches down a little so he can rest his head against Dean's shoulder.

"You tired again?"

"Mmm. Yeah."

Before Dean can say another word, he feels Sam's breathing even out with the transition from awake to asleep. It doesn't take long for Dean's lower back to start hurting and his ass to go completely numb. But Sam's not coughing, his breathing feels better, and he's a warm, reassuring presence that has been missing for far too long.

Dean doesn't move an inch.

* * *

><p>"I don't want any."<p>

"Come on," Dean says, holding out the ice cream cone. "It's mocha flavor. The scooper girl recommended it. I know your throat has to hurt after all that coughing. This will help."

"I'm not hungry."

Dean licks his own cone as it starts to drip. Classic Superman: artificial swirls of red, yellow, and blue. For some reason it's sweeter than he remembers from childhood. Still good, though. "Yeah? When's the last time you ate anything?"

Sam squints up at the sky. "I ate…on…it was…"

"If you can't remember, that's not a good thing. Come on. Just a few bites."

"Fine," Sam says with a sigh. He takes the cone and licks at a few dribbles.

A pair of seagulls squawk overhead. "You know," Dean says, "for a guy who wears his underwear on the outside of his clothes, he has some damn good ice cream."

"Wears underwear on the outside of his _tights_."

"That's right. And the cape is pretty much a dress. Think Superman's got something he's not telling everyone?"

Sam laughs and takes another bite. "This is really good."

"Yeah? Bringing your appetite back?"

"Maybe."

"Go ahead and say it. I'm an awesome big brother."

"No way." Sam coughs.

"Say it."

"You're a terrible big brother."

"Say it or I share your cone with the seagulls."

"Touch my cone and get pneumonia germs all over your last scoop."

Dean clutches his cone protectively to his chest. "No way. Fine. Truce."

Sam smiles. "Truce."

They continue eating quietly, listening to the repetition of the waves. Sam gets through most of the ice cream and part of the cone, tossing the rest to the gulls. Dean eats every last bite, licking sticky fingers when he's done.

"Dude, your mouth is blue."

Dean sticks out his tongue. He can only see the tip beyond his nose, but it is a startling shade of blue. He shrugs. "Chicks will dig it."

"Right," Sam says with a laugh.

Dean squints at his brother, whose lips are not blue (thank god), but something still looks off. "Hey, are you doing okay?"

"Yeah. Actually, I feel pretty good. Why?"

"You look flushed. Like your fever's going up."

Sam palms his own forehead. "I don't think so." He drops the hand down to his cheek and winces. "Maybe I'm just getting a little sunburned."

"Time to go back inside?"

"Probably."

They stand and spend a few minutes brushing sand off legs and feet and asses. When they're ready, Dean leans forward and motions for Sam to jump on his back. He may not be able to move in the morning, but when piggy-back Sam digs his chin into Dean's shoulder and says, "You're an awesome big brother," he knows it's worth it.

* * *

><p>"How the hell did you get so burnt?" Dean asks. He dips a washcloth in a bucket of cool water. The bucket, of course, had to be washed out with bleach prior to use due to the presence of a sticky substance that Dean neither wanted to identify nor touch. But it's clean now, and the cool water seems to be helping.<p>

Sam shifts against his pillows and winces. "No clue."

Dean slides the sleeve of Sam's shirt up over his bicep. He presses the cloth to the dividing line where skin changes from white to red. "The good news is that you're going to be sporting an epic farmer's tan for a while."

Sam groans. "Fantastic."

An alarm clock on the desk starts beeping. "What's that?"

"Time for antibiotics."

Dean feels a twinge of guilt-colored pain because reminding Sam about meds is his job. He drops the washcloth into the bucket and stands, feeling the first jolt of piggy-back-colored pain. After silencing the alarm, he grabs an orange prescription bottle from the desk and checks to make sure that the drug name ends in "cillin" or "cycline." He pauses when he sees a sticker off to the side of the label. "Professor Plum with the wrench in the library."

Sam's forehead wrinkles in Dean's direction. "Huh?"

Dean shakes the bottle like a maraca. "I solved the mystery of the sunburned Sammy." He clears his throat and dramatically reads the sticker: "You should avoid prolonged or excessive exposure to direct and/or artificial sunlight while taking this medicine."

"Oh. Oops."

"You've got to read these things, man. What if it said, 'Taking this medication while standing on your head will cause spontaneous baldness.'?"

"Then I would be spontaneously bald, obviously."

Dean holds out one of the pills and a cup of water. "Or. Hey. Lots of medications warn that they can decrease the effectiveness of birth control, right?"

Sam sits up far enough to swallow the pill and half of the water. "Pretty sure that doesn't apply to condoms. Or, you know, males." He pauses to cough, then asks, "Are you saying you pay attention to the stickers that say 'Do not drink alcohol while taking this medication?'"

"Always." Dean ducks under the top bunk and returns to his seat.

"Bullshit."

Dean grins and squeezes out the washcloth before pressing it to Sam's forehead. "How are you feeling?"

Sam toys with a loose thread on Dean's shirt. "If I tell you I still feel sick, will you stay?"

The words are bad enough. The hopeful tone almost sends Dean over the edge.

"Sam…"

At that moment, the dorm room door opens, and voices filter in from the living room.

"Tyler and Kendra," Sam says.

Sure enough, Kendra knocks and steps into the bedroom. "Hey guys. How are you doing, Sam?" She interrupts her own question by adding, "Holy shit! What happened to your skin?"

"We went to the beach. Apparently my antibiotics and the sun don't get along very well."

"Ouch," Kendra winces, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Another girl walks into the room. This one is just as gorgeous as Kendra, but completely opposite – tall, blond, and legs for days. And if the way Sam's face lights up is any indication, she's Kendra's roommate.

"Hey, Sam. Heard you were sick. Feeling any better?"

"Yeah," he says, more enthusiastic than he's been all day." Jess, this is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is Jessica."

Dean has to force himself to look up from a pair of shorts that give the word a whole new meaning. "Nice to meet you."

Jess smiles. "You too."

"Look how sunburned Sam got at the beach today, the poor thing." Kendra gently squeezes Sam's foot.

"Oh, you should try this lotion I found," Jess says. "It has vitamin E and aloe, so it helps a lot. I have some in our room. I'll go get it."

The word "lotion" from Jess's mouth must have short-circuited Sam's brain, because by the time he says "okay," both Jess and Kendra are already gone.

"I take it that's Kendra's roommate?" Dean says. "The one who supposedly doesn't know you exist?"

If it's possible to flush under a sunburn, Sam makes it happen. "That's her."

"Dude. You are going to smell like a girl."

"Dude. Jess is bringing me lotion. Which I'm going to need help applying. Your point is invalid."

Dean laughs. "True." He pats Sammy's chest. "You need anything before I take off?"

Sam's smile falls. "You don't have to go."

"Jess and Kendra will take care of you tonight. I'll find a motel nearby. Check in on you tomorrow morning before I leave."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Dean ruffles his brother's hair before walking out of the room. Tyler and Kendra are on the couch, box of pizza on the table in front of them.

"Hey. Dean. Want a piece?" Tyler asks, mouth so full Dean can barely understand the words. Kendra elbows him and says something about manners.

"Thanks, but I'm good." He takes his keys out of his pocket. "Actually, I gotta get going. I'll stop by in the morning to see how Sam's doing."

Tyler smiles. "All right, man. Adios."

"It was nice to meet you," Kendra says.

Dean echoes the sentiment. As he's walking out the door, he almost runs into Jess, who's back with lotion bottle in hand.

"Oh. Dean. Taking off?" she asks.

"Yeah, I am." He tilts his head in the direction of the bedroom. "Take care of him for me?"

Jess smiles, all fresh air and sunshine. "I will."

Dean stands in the hallway for a while before finding the strength to leave.


	17. A Long Shot

AN: In this one, Sam breaks a leg and is basically too tall for life. Good thing Dean is an awesome big brother.

* * *

><p>A Long Shot<p>

So yeah, Sam's kind of a giant. They shop at big and tall stores, let out a hem or two, and manage to keep him from looking like Steve Urkel.

Sam's height has never really been a problem.

Until now.

Turns out that 3-feet-long legs have a lot more bone available to break than the average person. So when Sam gets tossed down a flight of stairs, landing entirely wrong on his right leg, Dean knows without looking that said leg is broken.

He quickly salts and burns the locks of hair that have been the source of their ghostly trouble for the past few days, watches the apparition disappear, and runs down the stairs two at a time.

"Sam? Sammy?"

Sam's eyes are squeezed shut. He groans and doesn't move. "D'you get it?"

"It's gone. What hurts?"

"Leg."

Dean nods even though Sam can't see it. "Anything else? You hit your head?"

"Fuck, it hurts," Sam pants.

"Okay. Just hang on. Gonna get you some help, Sammy."

And for the first time, Dean curses his giant little brother's long bones.

Unfortunately, it won't be the last time.

Not by a long shot.

Pun intended.

* * *

><p>A clean break in the femur, another in the tibia, and two in the fibula. The good news is no surgery. The bad news is 6-8 weeks in a cast. And Dean saw those x-rays. There's no way he's going to let Sammy round that number down.<p>

Currently, Sam is lying on a standard ER gurney, face turned to the side, sobbing into a pillow. Not a single, glistening tear. Not a few sniffles. Harsh, broken sobs that shake the gurney and make the people who walk by their curtained-off area turn and stare.

"Sam, we're going to get you something stronger for the pain, okay?" the doctor says. "Then someone from orthopedics will get you in a cast."

Dean watches as the doctor jots down the name of a medication and a dose. And no. Just no. Not gonna fly. "That's all you're giving him?"

The doctor's pen stops moving. "Yes?"

"Have you seen what a giant this kid is?" The question comes from between clenched teeth. "Did you somehow miss the agonized sobs that haven't let up one bit despite the useless shit you gave him earlier?"

The doctor frowns at Dean, but flips back to the page with Sam's weight and height anyway. With a sigh, he crosses off the previously scribbled dose and replaces it with something more substantial. "That will do."

Dean nods once. "Make it quick." Then he goes back to smoothing Sam's hair and wiping tears and whispering "it's okay" over and over again until a blonde nurse appears with a syringe of height- and pain-level-appropriate drugs.

"Gonna sting a little, sweetheart," she says as she injects the medication.

Sam doesn't even flinch. Within minutes, his sobs slow and come to a stop. When he opens his eyes, the goofy smile on his face makes Dean smile, too.

"Feeling better, tiger?"

"That stuff," Sam says, "is better than sex." His tone could probably be considered emphatic if the words weren't slurred.

Dean laughs, relieved to see that his brother is no longer in pain. "That good, huh?"

"That. Good."

Then they laugh and talk about why watermelons have seeds and when Dean taught Sam how to ride a bike and what color the sky is when no one's looking. Dean can't keep up with the drugged conversation, but that's okay because Sam is relaxed and pain-free and his height doesn't cause any more problems.

Until it's time for the cast.

* * *

><p>"Dean. Dean. Sing with me."<p>

"I might if I had even the slightest clue what song you were singing."

"I made it up," Sam slurs. He shifts against his pillow. "'s about pumpkins." Sam launches back into the song, and oh, hey, it really is about pumpkins, which might be appropriate for October but is strange in July.

The technician laughs as he works on Sam's cast. He's already wrapped the padding from Sam's toes to hip. Now he's adding the fiberglass.

"You get a lot of this kind of stuff?" Dean asks, motioning to his brother.

"The effects of bad breaks and good drugs? Yeah. Might be my first song about a pumpkin, though."

Then Sam throws a line in his song about good drugs, and Dean laughs until the technician stops and says, "Oh. Oops."

"What?" Dean demands. "What's wrong?"

The tech motions to an empty roll. "I ran out of white fiberglass. I should have had enough, but wow, his leg is long."

"Tell me about it. Can you keep going with a different color?"

"Sure. Might look a little weird, but it'll work."

"Hey, Freddy Mercury," Dean nudges his brother's shoulder, "what color do you want the rest of your cast to be?"

The tech holds out a few color samples, but Sam barely glances at them before answering. "Pink."

"Pink?" Dean asks. "Sammy, what about black? Or the dark blue? That's decent."

Sam looks Dean right in the eye and speaks clearer than he has in quite some time. "No, Dean. Pink. I want pink. Hot pink."

The tech looks to Dean, eyebrows raised. Dean shrugs his shoulders. "You heard the man. Pink the rest of the way up."

It's going to be interesting when the drugs wear off.

* * *

><p>So ends up with a cast that's white to just above his knee and hot pink up to his groin. The nurses seem to think it's adorable, and Dean rolls his eyes while they ruffle Sam's hair and bring him extra bowls of Jell-O. Sam must be on his 5th or 6th serving when a perky brunette enters their room carrying a pair of metal crutches.<p>

"Hi, I'm Emily from physical therapy," she says brightly. "I'm here to help Sam with crutches so that you can get out of here. You ready, Sam?"

Sam holds out the Jell-O and spoon. "Y' want some?"

Emily laughs as she adjusts the crutches. "I'm all set. Thank you, though."

"Dean didn't want any, either," Sam says, taking another bite. "Dunno why. 's good."

Meanwhile, Dean is suspiciously eyeing the crutches. "Are those going to be tall enough?"

"I think so. We don't have any extra tall, so I just put these on the highest setting. They should work."

But when she gets Sam standing on one leg, and gives him the crutches, it's quite obvious that they aren't going to work. The pads barely reach the bottom of his rib cage and he has to hunch forward at an awkward angle to reach the grips.

"Wow, he really is tall," Emily says, wide-eyed.

"'s okay," Sam says. He moves the crutches forward, but when he puts his weight on his hands and tries to take a step, one crutch slides out to the right and the other flies backward, sending Sam into a free-fall which Dean halts just fast enough to prevent the need for a cast on the other leg.

"All right, Bambi," Dean says, easing Sam back onto the gurney. "Take it easy." Then he picks the crutches up and turns to Emily with a patronizing smile. "Are you sure these are the biggest crutches you have?"

She's still wide-eyed. "Positive."

Dean thrusts the crutches at her and lets sarcasm drip into his voice. "Thanks, Emily. You've been a big help. Now run along and find us some discharge papers, okay?" Once she's gone, he sighs and tugs a hand through his hair, wondering what challenge they will face next.

When he turns around, Sam is holding out a spoon full of red Jell-O. "C'mon, Dean. I know you want some."

Dean starts to decline, then changes his mind. He opens his mouth and lets Sam stick the spoon between his teeth. The Jell-O is sweet and cold and familiar.

"Good?" Sam asks.

"Good. Is that strawberry or cherry?"

"Strawcherry."

Dean smiles and takes a seat next to his giant little brother. They share the Jell-O, one bite for Sam, one bite for Dean, until it's time to leave.

* * *

><p>"I don't know, kiddo. I don't think you're going to fit in the passenger seat." Dean grunts as he carries his too-tall-for-crutches, too-heavy-to-be-carried, too-stoned-to-care brother to the car.<p>

"I'll fit. I didn't get any taller. Duh, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Watch your head," he says as he lowers Sam into the passenger seat.

"Ouch," Sam says when he hits his head anyway.

"Hey, I warned you." Dean stands and uses the back of his hand to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"See? Told you I'd fit."

It's true. Sam is in the passenger seat. His casted leg, however, is sticking straight out, nowhere close to short enough to fit in the footwell. "You're right. I'm sure driving with the door open won't be a problem."

Sam lifts his leg an inch or two. He frowns. "Dean. Dean. I can't bend my leg."

One of these times, Dean's going to roll his eyes hard enough to get stuck. "Imagine that. C'mon."

Dean hauls Sam out of the passenger seat and into the backseat, where the situation isn't much better. Even with Sam pressed against the door, his leg barely fits, wedged at an awkward angle.

"Ow," Sam moans, shifting against the seat. "That hurts."

"Okay, okay." Dean adjusts Sam's leg, but the new position leads to another yelp of pain.

"It hurts, Dean."

Dean throws his hands up. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I don't know what you want me to do. You don't fit anywhere, but we're not spending the next 6 to 8 weeks in the hospital parking lot."

"Roll down the window," Sam says.

"Why?"

"Just roll it down. Please."

More curious than anything, Dean obeys.

With two hands, Sam lifts his casted leg. He turns so he's half-sitting, half-lying on his side, leg elevated and sticking a few inches out the window. Once settled, he gives a sigh of relief.

Dean stares. "_That_'s comfortable?"

Sam smiles and nods. "Yes. Drive, chauffer."

Dean mutters under his breath. Damn gigantic, stoned little brothers. They pull away, Sam's cast flying like a strange white and pink flag.

They make it a couple of miles down the road before Sam pipes up from the backseat.

"Dean. My toes are cold."

"What?"

"My toes. They're going 45 miles an hour."

"Hate to tell you, but your whole body is going 45 miles an hour. Except maybe your brain. Probably more like 25 or 30 at the moment."

"But my brain's not cold. Just my toes."

Dean sighs and pulls onto the shoulder. After digging through his duffel bag, he stretches three socks over the end of Sam's cast. He gives the big toe a light squeeze. "Better?"

"Better."

They head out again. The next time Dean looks in the rearview mirror, Sam is sound asleep.

* * *

><p>Sam starts whimpering in his sleep all too soon. Dean had hoped the hospital-grade pain meds would last until he got his brother out of the car and into a bed, but it sounds like that's not going to happen.<p>

He makes a quick drive-thru stop before getting them checked into a motel. Then it's time for the fun to begin.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean says as he opens the door. Sam opens his eyes and moans. "Are the good drugs wearing off?"

"Ow."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' Come on. Bed, food, pain meds." Dean hauls his brother out of the car and onto his good leg.

"Fuck, that hurts." He drapes an arm over Dean's shoulders.

"Can you hop a little?"

Sam does, and groans. "No crutches?"

Another hop, with Dean taking on most of Sam's weight. "You don't remember much from today, do you?"

"Not really."

"You were out of it." Sam gasps in pain, but Dean keeps propelling him forward.

"Did I say anything stupid?" The words come from between gritted teeth.

Dean smirks. "Not at all. Hospital didn't have crutches in sasquatch size. I'm going to have to hit the big and tall store. See what they have in stock."

"Funny," Sam says before crying out again. "Shit, Dean. Fuck. Hurts." He's panting as they approach the motel room.

"Almost there, Sammy. You're doing great."

But by the time Sam is in the room, leg propped up with pillows, there's sweat rolling down his temples and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Dean opens the fresh bottle of prescription pain pills. "Okay, dude. You can't take these on an empty stomach, and I'm pretty sure those servings of Jell-O don't count."

Sam groans. "Not hungry."

"I figured. So I stopped and got you a smoothie."

The look on Sam's face falls somewhere between surprised and suspicious. "Really?"

"Really." Dean pokes a straw through the lid and hands it over. "Strawberry banana. And I won't even make fun of you for drinking a girly drink."

Sam takes a long sip. "'s good. Thanks, Dean."

Dean nods and gets Sam a cup of water. When the smoothie is half gone, Dean hands over two pills. Then he flops down on the other bed. It's early, but taking care of an injured brother is an exhausting job. His eyes are barely closed before he's tugged away from sleep.

"Dean. Dean."

"Hm?"

"I gotta go to the bathroom."

"Hold it."

"_Dean_."

"All right, all right." He forces himself off the bed and over to his brother. "You ready for this?"

Sam nods, but still swears under his breath as Dean gets him upright. The walk from the bed to the bathroom is shorter than the walk from the car to the room, but not by much. Luckily, the bathroom is tiny, so Sam can hang on to the counter while standing in front of the toilet. "Yell if you need help."

Dean closes the door and stands right outside. He waits for a minute or two, but doesn't hear anything. "Sammy? What's the hold up? I know you don't have performance anxiety."

A pause. "Dean?"

When Dean opens the door, Sam is facing away from the toilet. The flush on his cheeks could be pain or embarrassment or both. "What's wrong?"

"I can't…I have to…" He makes a vague motion towards his stomach.

And then the problem is obvious. The space between the shower, toilet, and wall is miniscule. Sitting with a straight leg is going to be a challenge.

"Shit," Dean says. "Literally. Ha. Get it, Sammy?"

"Dean…"

"Yeah, okay. No big deal. Here." He helps Sam hop as close to the shower as he can. "Now just start to sit, and we'll pull that leg out…" But Dean's plan is interrupted by Sam's yelp of pain.

"Not gonna work," Sam says between gasps.

"I see that. Okay. Take two." This time, they shift to the right, trying to angle Sam's cast into the open shower door. "Just a little further."

Sam groans. "Can't."

It's true. But what is Dean supposed to do? Go back to the office, determine if a handicapped-accessible room is available, drag his gigantic, hurting brother and all of their stuff to another room or another motel…

No.

Dean has a better idea.

He leans Sam against the counter. "Don't move, okay? I'll be right back."

Sam groans.

When Dean returns from the Impala, he's carrying a hammer. "Cover your eyes, Sammy."

"Dean, what the hell are…"

Dean makes a quick mental calculation and slams the hammer low into the wall across from the toilet. A couple more hits, and there's a hole leading into their room's small closet. Perfect size for a stretched-out, casted leg. When Dean looks up, he's met with confusion. Disbelief. "What?" Dean asks. "Not like we're going to pay the bill. Did you have a better idea?"

"I can't decide if you're stupid, smart, or just crazy."

"I'm brilliant. Now go on. Take care of business."

When Sam finishes and opens the door, Dean lifts one eyebrow. "Better?"

Sam flushes. "Yes."

Dean slips an arm around his brother's waist. "Did you wash your hands?"

"Soap and everything."

"Good." As Dean helps Sam back to bed, he notices that the wincing, gasping, and swearing are backing off. "Are those pain meds kicking in?"

Sam yawns. "Yeah. Finally."

"Get some sleep. I'll be here if you need anything." Dean tugs off his shoes and sets them on the ground near the hammer.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

A pause. "Why is half of my cast pink?"

Dean just laughs.


	18. Wish

AN: Request was Sam with a sinus infection, S1 or S2. I went with the week the boys spent at Stanford after Jess's death. Lots of angst ahead. Sam cries a lot. I promise to make the next one fluffy. Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p><em>Be careful what you wish for…<em>

Every day for four years, Dean wished. Every time he walked into a motel room, he hoped for Sam to be there, dimpled smile on his face, apology on his lips: _I don't know what I was thinking, Dean. I could never leave you._ Of course, Dean would give his brother shit for 2.8 seconds before pulling him into a hug and resuming life as it should be.

…_you just might get it._

Today When Dean walks into the motel room, Sam is there.

The room reeks of smoke. Not cigarette smoke from the last residents, but the smoke of a building fire. Melting plastic. Burning flesh.

And Dean wishes Sam was anywhere else.

"Hey," Dean says. He sets a bag down on the empty bed.

Sam looks up from a newspaper. "Hey." His voice is deep and hoarse, like a pack-a-day habit. "Anything?"

"No. Police haven't had any weird reports in the past few weeks."

The muscles in Sam's jaw tighten. He goes back to the paper.

"What about you?" Dean asks. "You find anything?"

Sam coughs a little. "Nothing."

"You get any sleep?" They'd both crashed around 3 this morning, and by 4 Dean was startled awake by screams loud enough to bypass his ears and go straight to his heart. After calming Sam down, Dean had managed to catch another couple hours of sleep to the soundtrack of his brother's tears.

"No. Did you hear from Dad?"

"Not yet." Dean rifles through one of the bags. "I got you a sandwich."

"I'm not hungry."

"Turkey on whole wheat. Lettuce. Tomato. No mayo. Maybe you could just eat half?"

Sam looks up, dark circles underlining both eyes. "The funeral's on Thursday."

Dean swallows hard and nods. Places the sandwich back in the bag. "Okay." He clears his throat. "I talked to the fire department. They said you should be able to get into the building tomorrow or Wednesday. There might not be a lot left, but…"

Sam sneezes twice, loud and sudden, then gives a hoarse groan.

"You okay?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Dean winces, because obviously his brother is not fucking okay.

"Yeah." Sam sniffles. "I'm fine." He wipes his nose with the cuff of his sleeve.

Even this small movement releases a trace of smoke-scented air. Dean digs through his duffel for a pair of jeans that's a little too big around his waist. A flannel shirt that's large and soft and warm. He sets both on the edge of Sam's bed. "You should take a shower."

For a minute, Sam just stares. Then he sets the newspaper aside. Winces as he stands. Traps flannel between his fingers. Clears his throat before saying, "Thanks, Dean," but the words are still rough.

"No problem, Sammy."

While Sam showers, Dean sits on his bed to eat his own sandwich. He catches a glimpse of the paper. The fire is front and center. An electrical fire, it says. One death.

He nearly chokes on the sandwich that tastes like ash.

* * *

><p>As Monday turns into Tuesday, it becomes obvious that Sam is getting sick. He's horribly congested, sneezing and blowing his red nose into sandpaper tissues. He's coughing and wincing every time he swallows, like there's sandpaper in his throat, too.<p>

"More apple juice?" Dean offers, holding out the bottle. The few missing swallows are the only calories he's been able to get into Sam all day.

Sam shakes his head. Anything verbal went out the window a few hours ago.

Dean sits on the edge of Sam's bed. "Why don't you try closing your eyes for a while? Whatever you're coming down with isn't going to get better without rest."

In response, Sam snags a tissue and blows his nose, the noise thick and loud, filling the silent room. He tosses the tissue into the garbage can and leans back against the headboard, blinking sluggishly.

"Come here." Dean tugs his brother into a reclined position. Sam doesn't fight him, just curls into the flannel of the slightly-too-small shirt at his neck. "Need anything?"

Sam coughs and shakes his head.

Dean gives the back of his brother's neck a gentle squeeze. "Try to get some sleep." Exhausted, Dean falls into the empty bed and turns off the lamp.

It's not long before Dean wakes to Sam screaming soundlessly through another nightmare.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Dean can count the number of hours of sleep Sam got on one hand. The number of nightmares, however, requires both hands plus a few toes.<p>

He leaves Sam in a half-asleep, half-zoned-out state long enough to pick up cold medicine and groceries. Back at the motel, he uses the ancient microwave to heat some water. He sits on the edge of Sam's bed, nudging his brother's hip with his own. "Hey. You with me?"

Sam blinks and manages a second or two of eye contact. He's slouched against the headboard because being horizontal makes him cough. His mouth is hanging open because there's not a bit of air moving through his nose. Endless tears leak from his eyes, probably some combination of illness, exhaustion, and heartbreak.

Dean thumbs a few tears away. "Made you tea with honey. Thought it might help your throat."

Sam takes the mug with shaky hands. He takes a cautious sip and sighs into a sneeze.

"Bless you."

"Thanks." The word is little more than a congested whisper, but it's there.

"How are you feeling?"

Sam takes another sip and clears his throat. "The interviews…"

Sam's neighbors. The owner of the apartment complex. The fire inspector. Anyone with clues they might have missed. "I'll handle those. Tell me how you're feeling."

"Teeth hurt."

"Your teeth?" Dean's eyebrows knit together. He presses careful fingertips to Sam's cheekbones. "That hurt?"

Sam winces and nods.

When Dean moves his fingers to the space above Sam's eyebrows, he discovers more sore sinuses and a fever. "Looks like a sinus infection, Sammy." He loads Sam up with decongestants, Tylenol, and cough syrup, knowing that none of them are going to solve the problem.

Dean goes into the bathroom and runs a few washcloths under the hottest water he can pull from the tap. Even with creaky pipes, he can hear congested sneezing from the other room. Retuning to Sam's bedside, he places the cloths over sore cheeks and forehead.

"Thanks."

"No problem." The heat makes Sam's nose run. Dean grabs a tissue and dabs at the raw skin. "Gotta get you some of those girly tissues with the lotion."

Sam sniffles and closes his eyes. "Go do the interviews."

"You'll be okay on your own for a little while?"

Sam nods.

Dean adjusts the washcloths. He places Sam's cell phone and a bottle of apple juice on the nightstand. "Stay in bed. You need anything, you call me. I can be back in 5 minutes, tops."

Two hours and a few dead-end interviews later, Dean's phone rings. It takes only 3 minutes for him to get back to the motel and pull his shaking, coughing, hysterical little brother into his arms.

* * *

><p>"You don't have to do this if you don't want to."<p>

They're sitting in the car outside of Sam's apartment building. The sirens and flashing lights are long gone, leaving an eerie calm in their wake.

Sam shivers and puts his hands in his pockets. The left is full of tissues, the right, cough drops. "Might be clues." He clears his throat. "And there's stuff I gotta get."

"We can get you new stuff."

"Not everything."

Dean nods, but he's not optimistic about finding whatever it is Sam's looking for. "All right." He squeezes the fever-warm skin at the back of his brother's neck. "But if it gets to be too much, or if you start feeling terrible, just say the word and we're gone, okay?"

"Okay."

They get out of the car and Sam hangs onto the door longer than necessary. "Dizzy?" Dean asks.

Sam coughs and tries to sniffle, but no air moves. "A little."

"All that congestion is probably messing with your ears." He puts a steadying hand on the small of Sam's back. "Come on. I gotcha."

They walk up the path, but before they get to the door, Sam stops. Dean follows his brother's gaze to a makeshift memorial. Flowers. Pieces of paper saying iRIP Jess/i and iForever in our hearts./i A teddy bear. A few candles. A framed picture of Jess and Sam, smiling like they'd be happy forever.

Without warning, Sam drops to his knees and throws up.

"I can't," he sobs when he's done. The voice that was wrecked before is now almost incomprehensible. "I can't go in there."

"That's okay," Dean soothes, rubbing Sam's back. "It's okay."

Sam coughs so hard he almost throws up again. "Nothing is okay."

Nothing.

* * *

><p>Away from the apartment and back at the motel, Sam is still a mess. He's crying, but he's so congested that his nose isn't running, so the pressure in his sinuses is building, and the pain is making him cry even harder.<p>

"Any better yet?" Dean asks. He's holding hot washcloths to Sam's face, but they seem to be helping about as much as the decongestants, which is not at all.

Sam just moans.

"Steam might help. Want to try sitting in the bathroom for a while?" Sam looks to Dean with swollen, bloodshot eyes and nods.

Dean ends up sitting against the tub with Sam's back pressed to his chest, feeling every congested breath. Sam is wrapped in a blanket but still shivering. The sink and shower are both running hot, filling the air with heat and moisture.

Dean pulls Sam close and presses his lips to the top of his brother's head.

And how is it possible that after this many hours and days, after showers and shampoo from a tiny plastic bottle, that Sam's hair still smells like smoke?

It reminds him of when he carried Sam out of the fire years ago. Both of the boys eventually needed a bath to wash away the smoky scent. Dean held up the shampoo bottle and asked what it said.

"No More Tears Shampoo," John read.

Only Dean didn't think it worked because Sammy cried enough tears to fill the bathtub.

Now, it seems like the steam is starting to work. Sam's cough is backing off, and his nose is running.

"Hanging in there?" Dean asks.

"She's gone," Sam says around a sob. "She's gone, she's gone, she's gone."

Dean rocks his brother back and forth and wishes their lives were something a bottle of Johnson & Johnson could fix.

* * *

><p>Most sinus infections go away on their own. No doctor. No antibiotics. No fuss.<p>

But Sam's sinuses are so swollen his eyes won't open all the way. His voice is gone again. He's coughing out more air than he's taking in. Misery is dripping off him in unrestrained waves.

So Dean hauls Sam to one of Stanford's clinic for the obvious diagnosis, prescription decongestants, cough syrup, and not one but two antibiotics.

The drugs make him tired, so he sleeps with his head in Dean's lap. Nightmares keep him from the deep sleep he needs, but the drugs keep him from waking to shake the nightmares off.

Dean strokes Sam's hair and prays he won't remember them later.

Dean spends the time in between nightmares doing research. Reading papers. Making phone calls. But he comes up empty-handed every time. They need to get away from Stanford. Go find Dad. See if he has any answers.

But first they need to get Sam well.

They need to get him through the funeral.

And there's no prescription to help with that.

* * *

><p>Sam's suit pants are a little too big and the jacket's a little too small, but it works. It's the best Dean could do in his rush to get back to his sleeping brother before the next nightmare hit.<p>

"How are you feeling?" Dean asks as he straightens his brother's tie.

"Okay." Sam's voice is thin, but there. The swelling and congestion in his sinuses are going down. His fever broke, and he's not coughing as much.

Dean uses his knife to cut the tag that's hanging from Sam's sleeve. "Good. Did you take your antibiotics?"

"Yeah."

While Dean ties his own tie, he asks, "Did you grab some tissues and cough drops?"

But Sam doesn't respond.

"Sammy?" When Dean turns, Sam is staring out the window.

"This isn't a nightmare, is it?" he asks, voice soft.

Dean stuffs his own pockets full of tissues and cough drops and knows they won't be enough.

* * *

><p>They close the doors to the Impala, shutting out the overpowering smell of flowers and the "I'm so sorry"s and the people who think this was some sort of random accident.<p>

In the passenger seat, Sam leans head and arms onto the dashboard. His cough is bad again after too many hours of trying to hold it back. Of trying to be okay.

Dean reaches in the backseat to fish out a bottle of water and the cough medicine. He pours a dose into the little plastic cup. A tug on Sam's collar gets him to sit up.

No matter how many times Dean sees tears streaming down Sam's face, the sight still makes something in his gut twist. He hands over the medicine and waits for Sam to tip it back before trading him for the bottle of water.

Once the bottle is empty, Sam fumbles at his tie with shaky hands. Dean reaches across the seat to untie it for him. He helps Sam shrug out of the too-small jacket. He tosses both in the backseat, and when he turns, he gets two arms full of a little brother. Sam sags into Dean's neck and coughs and cries and breathes.

"Hey," Dean says. He gets a firm grip on the back of Sam's neck and holds him there. "Sammy." _Sammy._

By the time Sam sits up again, the neck of Dean's shirt is soaked and most of the cars are pulling away from the cemetery.

"Let's go," Sam says, like they can put all of this behind them.

Dean turns the keys in the ignition.

He pulls away from Palo Alto with his brother in the passenger seat.

_Be careful what you wish for._

_You just might get it._


	19. Domestic Day

AN: I found this story that I wrote a long time ago and never posted, so here you go! I'm working on another ficlet that will be up this weekend-ish. Any requests for what else you'd like to see?

AN2: Not even going to try to explain how or where or why this story is. It just is. Good? Good. Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p>Domestic Day<p>

* * *

><p>Somewhere along the way, Sunday becomes domestic day. Sam mows the lawn. Dean washes the car. They do laundry – Sam loads and unloads, Dean folds, then Sam re-folds when Dean puts the wrong socks together and can't master the art of getting a T-shirt small enough to fit in a drawer. They take out the garbage. Clean the bathroom. Dust. Vacuum. They go grocery shopping and always pick up burgers or steaks and plenty of beer. They end the night grilling out, laughing and talking and eating and drinking until they fall asleep.<p>

All in all, it's a decent tradition.

On this particular Sunday, Dean wakes before Sam. He puts on a pot of coffee and goes outside to wash his baby before the summer sun gets too hot.

Once every inch of the Impala is sparkling, Dean heads back inside. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and takes a deep breath of air-conditioned air.

"'Mornin'," he says to Sam, who is pouring a cup of coffee.

"'Mornin'." The word is hoarse and followed by two congested sneezes.

No wonder Sammy slept in. "You okay?"

"Fine." The answer is rendered null and void when he turns, revealing bloodshot eyes and flushed skin. He sneezes again, and some of the coffee from his mug splashes out onto his hand. "Shit," he says, rubbing the hand on his shirt.

"Bless you. Comin' down with a cold or something?"

"I don't know. Maybe." The wince he gives when a sip of hot coffee slides down his throat is another sign in the affirmative.

Dean grabs a mug and fills it almost to the brim. "Did you take anything? Cold medicine?"

"Nah. Not that bad."

Dean grunts and takes a sip. "Car's clean."

"Good. I'll start a load of laundry."

"I could handle that, you know. Laundry. Cleaning and shit. I can do it if you want to crash on the couch for the day."

Sam sniffles and tears off a piece of paper towel to wipe his nose. "I can handle it."

"Suit yourself. I'll make breakfast."

* * *

><p>Dean's on a roll. Breakfast? Check. Dishes? Check. Lawn? Check. He's back inside, washing his hands when he hears sneezing from the bathroom. "Bless you," he calls, shaking his hands out and drying them on his jeans. Hand towels must be in the wash.<p>

Sam comes out of the bathroom smelling like Pine Sol and Windex, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. "Thank you." He sniffles.

"What's up with the grandmother look?"

"It's cold."

"It's summer. It's hot."

"_I'm_ cold." The drier buzzes and Sam heads into the laundry room, blanket trailing behind him like a cape.

Dean follows. "I can get that, you know."

"Got it. Go vacuum or something."

The blanket keeps sliding down one shoulder, then the other as Sam removes towels from the dryer. "Here." Dean tucks the blanket into the collar of Sam's shirt so it will stay put. Since he's already invading personal space and all, he sneaks a forehead feel. "Little warm there, Sammy."

When Sam leans in to grab another handful of towels, the blanket stays put. "Just a cold." He sneezes hard into his forearm and drops a few towels.

"Bless you."

Sam gathers up the towels he dropped, closes the dryer, and carries the basket to the couch.

"It's kind of cute, you know."

Sam sniffles and starts folding.

"You've got the whole 'Linus with the blue blanket' thing going on." Dean takes a seat on the couch next to Sam. He grabs one of the hot bath towels and drapes it over Sam's shoulders.

Sam closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, he sets the folded towel down and grabs another. "If I'm Linus, are you…" He pauses to sneeze. Twice. "Are you Lucy?"

Dean steals the towel from Sam's hands. "No way. I'm Snoopy. Gotta go after the Red Baron, you know?" He nudges Sam back against the couch and spreads this towel over his chest and arms.

"It's warm," he says, eyelids drooping.

"That's the point. Feel good?"

"Mmm."

Soon, the basket is empty and Sam is half asleep under layers of warm towels and washcloths with the blanket underneath. "Get some rest, little brother. You'll feel better when you wake up."

When Sam falls asleep, his head lands on Dean's shoulder. Dean smiles and puts his feet on the coffee table.

The vacuuming can wait.


End file.
